


Dove

by CryingKilljoy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 82,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CryingKilljoy/pseuds/CryingKilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original story written when I was twelve, basically the Hunger Games infused with the Maze Runner, so if you like that, you can read this or whatever I mean I really hate this because it's fucking shit but go right ahead I'm not stopping you</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_The Citizens must obey, for the Community has procured_

_a protected environment in which fear is evidently nonexistent._  
To conduct yourself in an unprofessional manner would  
be an act of rebellion, punishable by death.

 _-_ Laws of the Community, _page 4_

_~~~~~_

She is alone.

To be quite fair, that's how she is most of the time, but on this occasion, it's different. There's a slight chill in the air, more than usual, turning her bones to icicles. Goosebumps burst through her skin, creating prominent mounds on the dark terrain.

Three of her friends are gone — her only friends.

Even back at home, in the Incipiens Province, there was no one to support her when she cried, or even when she received a low grade on a math test.

Her parents were negligent messes, always bantering about how to handle accounting and who has custody over the child in the divorce.

 _It's not my fault_ , she had told herself, but it didn't block the grief and guilt from making their way into her brain and molding it to fit their rapacious plans.

Searching around for the predators she's so sure are probing the area, she steps forward, accompanied by a surge of faith in the form of a gust of icy turbulence.

Wind bites her cheeks as she treads through the snow and into the outside world, ducking her head to avoid the sharp, metal fragments that still cling to the gaping hole in the dome surrounding her hypothermic form.

Out here, it's slightly warmer, though the void has been open for a while now, allowing the tropical air of the outside Province to collide with the frigid air of the setting she was enclosed in for over four daunting weeks.

"Kora Damon?" a person asks, shouting through the deafening volume of the scene, heavily wrapped in a slightly puffier version of her coat.

"Yes, that's me," she can barely croak out — her lips are chapped, while her throat is dry from dehydration; Kora had learned not to consume the snow after the tragic incident that had befallen her friend, Thana.

That was the first of three.

She passed on the first day of thirty-one, leaving the rest of them bewildered and hungering for vengeance.

Once they met each other inside the area, they began to grow thirsty, so Thana instinctively suggested eating the pure, white snow layering on top of the ground. She demonstrated by scooping the frozen substance into her hand and shoving it into her mouth comically — she then started to thrash wildly, falling to the earth in a petrified state. Kora tried to halt her motions, for she knew not to trust anything the Community forced her into, but it was too late.

Somehow, Kora decided Thana was rather fortuitous. After all, she had escaped the consternated adventure of the remaining three.

The second rushed in rather unexpectedly. No one knew what had happened to Valdis, only that the rain had seemed so pleasant until she tasted of it greedily. Lefu was intent on doing the same, but Kora held him back with the last bit of strength she possessed. Soon, Valdis fell down dead after complaining about tremendous stomach pains disrupting her movement.

Lefu was the last, rendering Kora completely alone. At first, it was presumed that the lake water was adequate for swimming — Lefu had no intentions of drinking it after what had happened to Valdis and Thana, rather take a plunge into its murky depths for amusement when the first sunny day occurred.

Kora and Lefu were smiling messes, twirling around in the sunshine like people who had never experienced color before. The sun rays beamed down upon them, returning the color to their cheeks and the feeling to their hands. They hadn't seen such light in a long while, but they constantly pleaded for it to come. It was a grand celebration when it finally did.

Lefu knew what the liquid had done to Thana and Valdis, therefore avoided letting it slide into his mouth and down his throat, but he had no idea how it affected his skin, the wonders it would perform.

A few seconds after diving head first into the lake, cries erupted from him as he thrashed around wildly. Welts began to rise on his ebony surface, obliterating his beautiful complexion that Kora had known so well.

"Something's wrong with the water," Lefu managed to say, which, looking back on it, seemed to reflect on his personality so precisely.

"Excuse me, Miss? You look a bit pale." The person lifts the back of his hand to Kora's cheek, evaluating the amount of algidity that had collected not only on her face, but in her mindset. When he removes his fingers, his nails leave a trace, leaving a miniscule slit behind, drawing blood. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he says, realizing his mistake and the impact it had.

Frost adheres to her skin, chilling her whole body, even the part stuffed inside the puffy winter coat circled around her torso.

The fur-lined hood was designed to deflect the nipping feeling of falling snow against the wearer's ears, but all through Kora's journey, the harsh wind found its way around, dancing around her epidermis.

"I've been in freezing temperatures for a month. How do you think I'll look?"

The fact that Kora's mordancy traveled with her through the rough terrain is a comforting thought to her.

"You're the Evaluation Candidate, right?"

"Whom else?"

_I step through a gigantic aperture, and you assume I'm someone different than a Candidate? How many people do you see around here every day crashing through the gaps of a dome?_

"The Director instructed me to collect the Candidates and bring them to the headquarters located in Epistylium. She said there would be four of you, but I wasn't informed on the details of this year's Evaluation, so I suppose that's all right."

_All right? My three best friends were brutally murdered by her twisted creations. It is not "all right"._

Kora follows the man through the desolate city, winding through the buildings like she used to do in her horseback riding classes before she was drafted here.

She recalls the way her black curls would bounce when she spurred her thundercloud-colored horse, Czar, into a shaky trot, but now, they only rest lifelessly on her shoulders.

It appears as though the Citizens have deserted in a certain amount of time, hurried out of the city like their life was somehow in danger — understandable, considering how the Community conducts their experiments and general life.

Bitterness drills through her stomach, a trait her mother said was a mirror image of her name, even though "Kora" has a slightly different meaning. She, however, never understood why someone would name their child "bitter", as if their presence is unwelcome; her mother went through nine months of agony to have a kid that she named something so caustic as that.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the person says, a frown creeping on his face, but Kora can tell that he's faking it.

He's as loyal as they get — volunteering to assist in charity work, offering their name to manage things with the Community in any way they can, constantly flaunting their love for their government; they crave interaction like a wolf craves meat. Those kinds of people never understand how truly horrifying the Community's grafting nature is.

They call themselves earnest, wear it like a name badge, but they are merely accentuating their perverse tendencies, tendencies that Kora scorns.

_If I ever become the Director, I will make sure no one has to endure these trials. That's my word. And I will deliver._

Twenty-four yearslater, however, fate had a different plan for Kora Damon.

 


	2. Desire

_The Citizens of the Community have been rescued,_

_salvaged from the fire and rubble of the previous war. The turmoil  
birthed a new generation, one that will stand up and accept that  
they have been saved, and shall spend their life in gratitude.  
This is the ideology of the Community.  
-_The Citizens' Purpose _, page 83_

_~~~~~_

I love how birds move, essentially that variety is such a deciding factor. Some birds are careful not to take more than they can manage, so they perform small strokes to keep themselves afloat, while others utilize the entirety of the space that they are given, gathering all of the air they can contain in between their feathers, flowing like a mountain stream.

My favorites, however, are the dove and sparrow. When I observe a dove's ambitions, they are filled with gentleness and poise, something that I find to be an imperative quality in a human's personality. With the sparrow, they speed by in a hurry, as if they have a special place that requires their presence.

I aspire to reach that level.

~~~~~

My feet tap nervously against the cold, linoleum floor as I eye the clock that will decide my future. Its ticking seems to last forever, never reaching the tiny black mark that I so desperately wish it would.

"And who can tell me what Director Primum decreed as his first law in office?"

I grow more and more nervous with each wrong answer my classmates spew out. Most of them are complete doofuses, opening their mouth in astonishment when I answer a question correctly when they couldn't even imagine forming coherent thoughts.

My hand jolts upwards, cutting off their "wasting time" game; I've always abhorred it tremendously. "We welcome you, all of you, to this new society of prosperity and happiness. There will be no fault. Thus, I have created this community to ensure the safety of the Citizens and the welfare of our beautiful land."

"Very good, Florence! Gold star for you."

The boys in the back just snicker at our teacher's childish reward system as she reaches to put a sticker next to my neatly written name that I had scribed when I first learned cursive. I kept the piece of paper as a reminder of my success.

In my opinion, there's nothing wrong with keeping a chart of students' achievements — as I always remind myself: organization is a main priority to be lucrative in school and in life. Mainly, it's disrespectful to act rudely towards someone, primarily your teacher, a figure that assists you in your learning experience, something that affects your whole life.

"Braniac."

"Slackers," I spit back at the boys, flipping my long, brown ponytail back to the front, where it settles on my shoulder, reflecting my quipping finish; they simply scowl angrily, like every time I put their jocular tendencies to rest.

Those two kids have been sitting behind me since as long as I can remember — they're practically inseparable, though I suppose they dragged me along with them. I'm actually surprised my face hasn't stuck to the glaring state that it's usually in whenever they're around. I pretend not to know their names, but everyone in the school realizes that's not quite true. By now, I practically know the contents of their medical records, as is a popular opinion formulated by an over-imaginative twelfth-grader.

"Okay, class, now who said—"

Ms. Darthe is cut off by the sharp blare of the electronic bell. Glancing at the clock, a smile grows on my face, realizing it's the last day of school before Evaluation break.

My friend, Pan, said not to be so excited for today, that it's pointless. He doesn't know what I have to prove, which, to be honest, is a fair point when I look in the perspective that I really don't have anything.

"Excited, Braniac?" a familiar voice whispers in my ear, sending chills up my spine that soon turn to the biting teeth of pique.

"Ugh, shut up, Pan." I pick up my binders, thank Ms. Darthe, and hurry out the door, my excited friend nipping at my heels with a broad grin sliding across his face.

"Looks like someone didn't get their Evaluation letter," Pan retorts coolly.

"Looks like someone didn't get a haircut."

Shooting me a malevolent glare, he brushes the black hair out of his eyes ("Technically, it's not black. It's dark brown when you look at it in the light, Florence, so you're wrong.")

I've been pestering him about getting the wild mane trimmed, but he's always complained that I was being "an evil hag". I'm merely concerned that it obstructs his vision, and that's why he earns failing grades in math. If he can't tell a four from a five, then he has a problem, but teachers will assume it's a computing error because of the relation of the two numbers.

"And who says I didn't get the letter? Besides, they haven't gone out yet. Now if you would allow me," I reply briskly, pushing him aside, "I'd like to get my books from my locker."

He chuckles, peering inside the contraption after I scan my palm on the device in the corner of the metal rectangle.

My locker is quite plain, considering some of the girls in my grade have miniature, plastic chandeliers and tiny shag rugs. Some have gone as far as to wallpaper the insides with flashy giftwrap. I was never into that kind of thing, but I completely respect the ideology; people can do as they please, as long as they're not hurting anybody and they leave me out of it.

"Ooh, you're reading Jeanette and Marcus again, I see. How very quaint."

Ever since the Evaluation Committee began their titillated hunt for Candidates, Pan has been attempting to sound "smarter" by using "big words" and "those weird phrases from old books and stuff".

"It's a very good read."

This partly is a lie, considering the romantic plot of Jeanette and Marcus had, in fact, gotten on my nerves. It was dramatized tremendously, to a point where I was anxiously begging for the tale to be wrapped up. The ending was a shocker, but I think, rather harshly, that both their families would've been relieved that the two were always sneaking around and not flagrantly flaunting their grand relationship in their faces, even if it did result in both of their deaths.

"The thing is," Pan starts, putting a finger on his lip questioningly and furrowing his brow, "I'd actually take you for something other than a nerd... You're always climbing trees when—"

"When you can't get two feet off the ground? I know."

Pan's athletic prowess (or lack thereof) is atrocious, yet, by some miracle, he has passed gym class for his whole time at school. He most likely set up some sort of arrangement with the teachers, though something about his personality tells me it was blackmail; how'd he even get that leverage?

I slam my locker, stuffing my things into the white sack laced tightly on my back so that it folds itself against my sides, smiling at Pan's comment about tree climbing.

When I was in fifth grade, I developed a phase where I would venture outside in bike shorts and dirty up my knees with the rough texture of tree bark, smirking at Pan from below, with his hands seemingly stuck on his hips in frustration. Adhesive bandages were always on the top of the grocery list when my mother and I went out shopping, scrawled in my careless writing.

"I'd rather not fall off of things like—"

"Like _whom_?" I spit.

"No one, absolutely no one." Pan's eyes widen, realizing what he sparked in me.

They're dangerous, his words. Humans are unforgiving, and no matter how much they apologize for speaking certain things, the air pushed out in sounds from peoples' lips is much more than it presumes to be, much more than a passing eye can observe. It changes; certain noises echo inside certain people and never leave, because humans can never forget. There are no misconceptions when it comes to sentence building, for the pain of a single phrase exists somewhere in somebody. It's extremely dangerous, this word concept. That's why I don't say much.

_Show him no mercy. Remember that time when he stepped on your favorite shoes in third grade and got them really muddy? Yeah, justify your actions with that._

With a bit of luck, I resist the urge to knee Pan in the shins, to watch him fall to the ground in pain for the first time for real. Most of his agony originates from completing, unsuccessfully, peculiar tasks as if his life depends on them.

"It wasn't their fault," I whisper. "They didn't choose to fall. But sometimes it's the closest thing to flying."

~~~~~

Trying my best to avoid submerging my school shoes — they're only one year old — in the bubbling mud lining the road and soaking into the grass, I make a point of stepping diagonally on the gravel path to the market.

The Community's caretakers had tried their very best to keep the grass growing sharply beside the sidewalk, but as I glance at it disdainfully, I realize they didn't perform quite as adequately as they were expected to.

The sign to the marketplace is stuck noticeably in the damp soil, the only evenly placed thing around here. Admittedly, the quite a few of the letters have faded to a lighter, softer shade of white, like a cream color.

"Hello, Florence!" Pan's mother, Mrs. Endo, calls out to me, waving me over to her booth freshly stocked with plump cabbages, carrots, corn, and other such vegetables that I have no taste for.

After her work hours at the Community headquarters, she makes her daily shift at the market to raise extra money to support her growing child. I've always admired her, how she sacrifices her free time to care for Pan.

"Hello, Mrs. Endo," I reply, smiling sweetly to uphold the "perfect child" persona she has engraved into her mind.

"Are you excited for tomorrow?" Mrs. Endo squeals.

She's always tried to connect with me by acting a bit younger than her age — more like twenty five years younger — but it only seems bizarre.

"Yes, ma'am."

Besides Mrs. Curtis, I use ma'am like it's essential to my survival, but on the rare occasion that I slip up, the adults don't make any big deal of it, yet I still feel the sharp urge to blast it out all day.

"Do you mind helping me unload the new supply of beets?" Mrs. Endo requests, ushering me over with a hand, wet with vegetable liquids.

_Don't make me touch your dripping cabbages._

"Not at all," I respond, making my way into her booth from the side entrance's tiny latched door. I reach down into the shipment box for what look like red potatoes, grabbing a few beets at a time, attempting hysterically to shove more of them deeper into my hand to get the process over with quicker.

Mrs. Endo notices my struggle, laughing quietly as she assists me when a beet, darker than the rest of them, slips through my grasp and plops into the mud with a splash.

I give a weak smile, holding up the beets as I shrug. Externally, I look like a clumsy mess, but internally, it's like a zoo that I've only had the fortune of visiting once when I was three.

They feel so strange, yet they fit nicely in my clutch, aside from my imminent strife to contain them. Their texture is smooth, with the occasional bump and rough patch, varying from beet to beet.

"I'll get the rest. You enjoy your day," she finally says once most of the beets have been placed on her color-coded shelves fringing the walls of the tent.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Always so polite," Mrs. Endo comments as I sashay down the street, glancing around at the other booths.

My mother taught me to be polite to everyone I meet, but Mrs. Curtis, my guardian, taught me to enforce it ruthlessly wherever I go, no matter what — one of them isn't like the other. Obviously, Mrs. Curtis strictly believes in the Community's fundamental ideal of politeness to both strangers and to familiar Citizens, whereas my mother told me that being respectful is critical to forming connections, but if people are rude to me, I do not have to follow socially acceptable rules — courtesy is only a courtesy to those who deserve it.

Soon, the activity of scouting out the other booths in the market becomes time-consuming, taking my thoughts of tomorrow down in a pile of ashes.

~~~~~

Sunlight pours into my dull room, illuminating everything that seemed dreary and bleak, or relatively normal. However, that is how I like it, and seeing the dramatic shift unsettles me, or maybe it's just my perfectionist instincts kicking in.

I'm a neat freak. I don't think that's a problem. I believe that everything should have a place — and it does — and its place should not be disrupted. Is that such a strange thing? I've always thought it's normal, but it seems I don't have much human contact, one reason being the only other perfectionists I've encountered call it OCD, much to my displeasure — mental illnesses aren't a joke or some cute quirk; they're ghastly and life-threatening.

Books are my main source of friendship — sounds pathetic, I know, and yet it's true. Books never let me down like people do (especially at funerals, when they're literally letting other people down).

Loud knocks echo off my walls, and I push my messy hair from my pale morning visage as I slowly amble to the door to see the orderly, smiling face of Mrs. Curtis, who somehow annoys me greatly, even though she resembles me in countless ways.

The middle-aged woman stepped in for my parents after their death, but truth be told, I'm rather sick of her, mannerisms and all. Sometimes I wonder if, under that serene, let-me-bake-you-a-cake grin, there lies a volatile creature clawing to escape, but I try not to ponder this much. The first time I had done so, I almost drowned in my tears after having a horrifying existential crisis just by thinking about the sight.

"Good morning, dear!"

_And there it is. Oh yeah — the pep. I almost forgot about the pep..._

"Ah, yes, Saturday already, is it?" I pretend to know what day it is, and sometimes I do, but other times, I have to stop and ask myself the year, as if time flew by in my sleep.

"You're out of school, so I made you some nutritious fruit cake!" With a broad smile, Mrs. Curtis shoves a heavily powdered plate into my stomach, and I attempt to reorient myself, at least before she starts talking a mile a minute about how excited she is for me.

Ever since Mrs. Curtis moved in, she flushed out the cabinets stocked with gelatin, processed snacks, etc. — the good stuff — and instead replaced the shelving space with fruits, vegetables, and tasteless granola bars that make your stomach strike back against you five minutes after consumption ("They have lots of fiber and protein! A growing girl such as you needs that kind of nutrition.") While it's true I will most likely battle someone for their granola bars, Mrs. Curtis' favorite kind tastes, if there is a taste at all, like dirt mixed with the toenails of my arch-nemesis that has not been named and discovered yet (probably because I hate most everyone).

"Wait, but it's—" I stop, eyes wide as I remember the event that shall transpire today, the one that I have been so anxiously anticipating for the last nine months, while my other classmates are more involved with a film they're been gushing over.

"It's not even a book," I had told them, but they'd just giggled as if I were speaking a foreign language.

_What does that even mean? The Community is the only place. Nothing is foreign. Except me, of course._ _I had only learned that word from the textbooks to which I so futilely cleave._

As a child, I'd had many issues with how I felt about myself. I had a relatively happy life, and I still do, if you don't count my parents' tragic death, and yet I felt so out of place. I suppose I am foreign. If it's any consolation to me, all of the foreign places were bombed and ruined and are now called dead cities; I don't think that helps though. The closest thing I have to an outsider is Pan, who moved here from Japan with three of my other friends, River, Fallon, and Rowan, though the three were originally born in Bangladesh.

A few years later, I concluded that this alien presence is where my great infatuation with books came from — the brave, selfless characters will never let me down, and I'm somehow sure of this; perhaps it's like loving a dog though.

You're so sure they love you and that they could never harm you, because they don't know how to communicate in ways that you will understand, because, of course, they're fanciful and incapable of communicating at all.

Books provide great comfort and that was all I needed to proceed.

Vivid memories flood back, reeking of nights where I would lie awake, just thinking. Thinking about school, thinking about friends, thinking about family, thinking about how hopeless my live was, or how hopeless it could have become. I couldn't fix anything for myself, turn my life around for the better — I couldn't even change it remotely. I'm terribly afraid of everything. I could only dream to have this life more shattered than it already is, but I'm okay now. I'm sure of it. It's not much, but it's sustainable, even though it tires me.

School wore me out, taking every bit of energy I possessed and turning it to conform to the Community's expectations of a perfect child — a hard-working student with top marks, a helpful kid that assists in house work, and an obedient Citizen that would never question betraying their government, always volunteering themselves to benefit the growth of a society that purged them of their free will.

And that's all it was: a purge. By enforcing the ideals thrown together at a simple board meeting, the Community gradually extracted each and every fragment of privilege to be devoid of suspicion from the Citizens who desperately hungered for the government's new design for their quality of life.

Obviously, the outcome is a façade of well-being and jubilance with a wretched undertone that is masked by the smiling faces of Citizens with no recollection of having their souls snatched from them with a promise for another chance, a fresh start, something they would've willingly given under a separate set of circumstances; something about humans creates the wariness of decisions when met with force.

They divided us, tore us apart to match the aspirations of a growing community that relied on sections to thrive. The Provinces seemed like a good idea, until the trouble of trading arose — the merchants of the Incipiens Province struggled to accommodate the sumptuous schedules of the electrical workers of the Lumen Province.

After the heated debate about a new and improved Province plan (thick with screaming and projectile spit blooming on co-workers' faces), the perverse idea of formulating a stricter regulation on trading appeared; the government was to oversee the entire operation and transport the goods (with help from those eager Citizens I detest).

Following the proclamation of the contemporary advance, the Community spewed out a profligacy of laws to further block the Citizens from the freedom they were endowed. That's mostly where the future went south, when their tree of life suddenly crumbled and its apples turned to rot in the most unpleasant manner, taking the whole patch of earth with them. And the worst part about the whole scheme is that the Citizens had no idea.

If this is the setting the Community is trying to fabricate, they're doing a pretty screwy job of it. Where are the smiling people? All around, of course, but that's only because they're so busy being unaware of the death and destruction whizzing by their heads and being wrapped up in their own lives to realize the tables turning and crushing them gradually under the weight. The smiles are fake, only present because the Community shoved them on with a messy glob of superglue. If the people truly had a grasp on the grafting arrangements of their government, their grins would melt into frowns like dripping wax from a flaming candle slowly losing its light.

That's all that will be left of the Citizens: an ember, a tiny fragment of heat buried deep among black ash, something only rekindled after hours of digging down deep inside themselves. They won't do it. They'll _never_ do it, because they are obstructed by the Community's rhapsodic visage of shielding their faults with their few pleasures. Their artificial modesty keeps the system intact, for the Citizens have been taught to never ask for anything extra, outstep their boundaries under any circumstances.

This is the price the people have to pay after the miserly combat lasting many years. They were taught to fold their wrapping paper for reuse after reaping a scarce gift during holidays. They were taught to reserve the food they were given, eat all of the contents upon their paper and plastic plates. They were taught never to trust other people, for everyone was desperate for correspondence, their food to match their restless stomach. They were taught to bring out their natural instinct. They were taught to kill.

"Florence, honey? You seem a little pale."

My thoughts snap from the daydreaming and thinking area, where I spend most of my time — time that should be spent on fundamental qualities of life, not fantasizing about a different realm where the Community is virtually nonexistent, or at least far from my worries. Yet I fall again into a haze.

I could be wandering the lively streets of Paris, a dead city lost in the unforgiving war sixty-eight years prior, munching on the exotic food I had been told briefly about in elementary school as a precursor to the Community's vast history.

I had begged my second grade instructor to continue his spiel on other countries on a different chunk of land — Europe, he called it? — but he ruthlessly declined, leaving a seven year-old Florence weeping on the floor as my tears drove deep into the material of the ancient map resting haphazardly upon the white carpet. I would've listened until the light faded from the sky, until my mother had waited for three hours or more, tapping her foot anxiously and checking her watch every ten seconds, shooting me disgruntled glares as she shifts her purse on her shoulder. I would've listened until my ears bled ("That's improbable, Florence," my teacher informed me, always such a downer and an intellectual spirit) but he restricted my access to a life beyond that of the hover-parent government style of the Community.

I only received shadows, glimpses of the unknown areas of Europe, Asia, South America, Australia, and Africa — which are addressed by other names currently — yet, somehow, it was enough for an impassioned kid.

As a child, my mind was my best friend. It allowed me to explore worlds unknown, worlds forbidden by the extensive watchfulness of the education system. I suppose there was something oddly adventurous about the landscapes no one knew about, the places only manifested inside me, but not adventurous in a terrifying way; adventurous in the form of safety and uncovering my true self.

The outside gate opened only to me when I asked it to, when I pleaded to escape the routine dullness of the Community and its Citizens. It showed me how to be free, that even the confines of the prison cell that holds me can be all right once I peel back the outer layer of discontentment. It showed me how to do well in school, yet hold a special portion of my brain dedicated to whatever I choose. It showed me that extroversion is seemingly unimportant, that introversion is not a flaw and does not need to be overthrown. But thank goodness school taught me how to graph non-linear structures, right?

Home life is a distraction, something unnecessary, but at least it accepts my capricious nature with welcome arms, dries my tears and tells them that they're useless, that they stain my face with an unwanted, caustic essence. Even the residents of the environment don't affect me the way I used to affect myself — I've become numb to the judgmental stares I acquire when I walk down the street, especially the ones I obtain when merely relaxing in the living room.

Mrs. Curtis may disapprove of the way I look, often dressing in faded fabric, with frayed hems adorning my attire nicely, and she definitely disapproves of the way I speak, with miniscule sentences when I'm bored and extravagant sentences when I'm even more bored, but what she doesn't understand is that I don't need her consent to let go of the real world.

But I have to say something to calm peoples' nerves. I have to acknowledge the fact that the truth isn't meaningless, that I still am encouraged relentlessly to go outside, graduate from school (and maybe even college, if I'm lucky), get a well–paying job to support my growing needs, and perhaps marry someone that makes the corpulent trip worth it.

After all of this is finished and over with, when the journey draws to an end, when my drifting thoughts are all but withered, falling away in bits like crisp, autumn leaves plummeting from trees that occupy loads more strength than myself, I am sure of the palpability of retaining my memories, however locked up tight inside me from years of being ignored, pushed to the side in peevishness. No one can take my thoughts from me.

Mrs. Curtis will always be there, waiting, much like she is at this precise moment, and she will always be expecting a response from the wayward child standing in the doorway (metaphorically and literally), so, as much as I resist, I must oblige.

"I'm a morning troll," I lip. "I look pale as the soft, winter snow. It's quite disgusting, as you can see. I've started to form a disliking to the slippery mess. Too cold... Yes, it bites. Truly. I could honestly do without it."

To be completely truthful, I had not apprehended that, after all of the defiance and mystical foreshadowing that alluded to a well–planned takedown on my part, I would utter such an unformed statement in front of the perky woman. To think I could do such a thing; it is my responsibility to frighten the lady so incredibly that she simply places my breakfast outside my door in the morning and hopes with all her might that I don't burst through the door and catch her in the act.

Mrs. Curtis stares at me in confusion and, with a raised eyebrow, swiftly turns and dashes down the creaking stares. I shrug and close the door to enjoy my fruitcake.

_Aha, it's working better than I thought._

I soon realize the coincidence that was the source of most of her confusion — her apron displayed a cartoon snowman with a white and yellow cake somehow resting on his stick arms, with block letters surrounding his face, reading "Snow Angel Food Cake".

I sigh, tracing the wood grains of the door, covered partially by paint rolling off in flakes around the edges and shallow divots. My fingers catch in a tiny hole brought to life by the texture of the tree used to create the wooden slab dividing me from the middle–aged woman running fearfully for her life.

_Try not to trip down the stairs._

"I'm sorry," I whisper into my wall. "I get like this in the mornings, Mom — or around Mrs. Curtis, even if I _am_ a morning person. By the way, why did you stick me with her? I mean, the old cat lady from down the street, Mrs. Adelma, would be a fine pick. She's got lots of cats, with the variety ranging from color to ear shape, but...I guess you don't want an eighty–four year old lady who's losing her wits in the house looking after your daughter. A girl can try though, right? You never even allowed cats in the house anyway."

One eventful day in third grade, I was walking home from school — minding my own business as I kicked pinecones off of the sidewalk and onto the street where I would be able to observe a rushing vehicle plow through it mercilessly — when I came across a black and white cat scooting in front of my feet. It soon began to rub against my leg affectionately, its soft ears brushing softly against my prepubescent leg hair.

Scooping it up in my frail arms and paying no mind to the animal's anxious thrashing, I darted towards my house located in the grassy suburbs of the Incipiens Province, where I would await the judgement of my mother. As you can imagine, she turned down the request to keep the cat, however adorable — even she could admit that; with its patches of color, it was almost impossible to refuse the concept, or at least that was my thought.

When my father returned home, he was no doubt astonished at the sight of my mother struggling to contain the cat inside the bath tub as I lobbed a clump of bubbles at its head, a wide smile flashing on my face. He was slightly more compassionate, confessing his liking to the creature writhing inside the ceramic trap of the bath tub, water lapping at its fur, but, in fear of my mother's wrath, he, too, denied the cat's passage into our family. I didn't even get the chance to name it!

"I could've named it after you, you know. You'd get to enjoy a power struggle in asserting dominance over the cat. Would've been fun. You could've had a grand battle and all. There can only be one Lilian in this household. Hopefully, you'd just change its name, not actually duel to the death. I'm positive Mrs. Adelma would come after you with a broom if you did that."

When I was ten, I adopted a style that seemed to calm me, where I would pretend my parents were listening to me from their resting place, where I had previously desired. At least then I could be with them.

Mrs. Curtis had knocked on my door frantically, thinking there was someone inside my room, trying to kidnap her precious 'baby'. It shouldn't have to be her duty to protect me with the same ferocity she's been exercising, but it's unlikely she'll cease her spastic ways.

_Gosh, Florence, can you stop being so childish? They can't hear you._

"Come on, you can't blame me, Mom," I continue, giggling slightly to cover the doubtful thoughts prancing inside my mindset. "Well farewell, O kind maiden of the heavenly realm. It's time for me to get ready."

_If you cannot master the elegant and old–fashioned speech of the Middle Ages, you simply cannot win at life._

A slight smile flashes on my face, until I remember that they're gone — my parents will never come back — and I just slide down to the ground, pressing against the door for support, watching the glare from the window ruin the color of everything as my jovial moment fades.

Getting myself together and standing up, meanwhile taking a deep breath, I fling open the door to my bedroom and make my way to the washroom, stretching profusely in the process.

Flicking on the electricity, the form of the room places itself into my presence. The walls are grotesque, with deep yellow paint chipping off around the edges of my kindergarten drawings framed above the sink.

After showing them to my parents, ignoring the queasy expressions on their faces, I shoved them into a musty box in the attic, never to be seen again. That is, until Mrs. Curtis came looting through old possessions in every corner she could find.

Sifting through the box I had kept hidden for many years, forgotten and stowed away cautiously, she pulled out a few of the kindergarten art masterpieces and nailed them to the bathroom walls so that they could "watch over us benevolently everyday".

Peeling the dingy clothes from my body, careful to keep them away from my skin to ensure less dirtiness, I step into the bath. I wince as I smack my foot on the lip of the shining, white structure. "Why does this happen to me? I'm just trying to take a bath!" I shriek to no one in particular, perhaps the water gods that have my fate in their ginormous — probably hairy — hands, who can make the biased decision to have me slam my face into the tub or traverse safely into the water.

I scrub the dirt off my feet with a crusty, yellow sponge, being careful to not break it in half, as Mrs. Curtis likes to keep everything in good condition and not waste our materials that were "so kindly given to us by the pleasant place we call home". I had at first thought she meant the house, but I then realized her speech as similar to those who are fanatics about our government style, who can't get enough of it.

Those people always scared me, with their bright faces, usually holding supportive signs to display their great appreciation of whatever it is that the Community has issued. They're like a mob of those inferior creatures at school that are always raving about boys — in other words, it's best to avoid them, or else you'll be sucked into their frivolous squealing games.

I feel that I'm always talking about books, but wait! Here's yet another connection to them, but the only time I pair two human beings is if they're fictional, and that's the complete truth. Any other matching is seen by me as worthless — and I'm the one with fake people as best friends, so I don't exactly see why I'm so confident in this.

Drawing my feet out of the bath slowly, I wrap a blue towel around myself before my betraying eyes can fall accidentally onto the mirror, where I would most likely scream at myself.

I walk — more like trip — to the door, twisting the knob furiously, and, in the process, I slam my back on the doorframe. Feeling around the walls, I make my way back to my room with limited injuries.

Mrs. Curtis loves to reprimand me for being so disoriented, placing a medium-sized book on my head whenever she gets the chance so that I can learn correct posture. The amount of times I cock my head defeats her nefarious plans, however; the books all come tumbling to the ground beside me, leaving the lady to pick them up wearily.

My bed, formerly adorned with covers strewn about in every place, is now perfectly made, wrinkles abolished strictly — Mrs. Curtis has made her daily visit to my room to tidy up my "pig sty of a place".

On it lies an old-looking white dress, buttons lining the frontal flaps. I wonder if it's my mother's. She left a stuffed box of her possessions to me in the occurrence of her death, but when she finally died, I shoved it in the attic to forget the terrible memories, but I clearly instructed Mrs. Curtis to never open it — those things don't have the same connotations with her as they do with me, and I especially didn't request the pristine form of it to be viewed by Mrs. Curtis' prying eyes.

Hopefully, the dress isn't hers, either. Mrs. Curtis's fashion sense is terribly bland and austere, much like herself. We both have a hard time venturing out in public with each other — Mrs. Curtis looks as though she just stepped out of the pre-Community days, while I look like I just stepped out of a trash can, or at least that's what she tells me every day.

I sigh, disdainfully sliding the fabric over my damp head, mindful to avoid my dripping hair. Every time I recklessly put on a shirt after a shower, my back is soaked and splattered within five minutes flat.

I brush my stringy hair endlessly, until some of the moisture escapes, sliding a pin to keep my light brown locks in place. I retrieve a huge, blue bow from a box located inside my dresser, a stash that Mrs. Curtis was sure I would utilize excessively one day — today is not that day; tomorrow isn't so beautiful, either.

"Florence!" Mrs. Curtis scolds. "Get ready quickly, and get your head out of your pants!" That's the thing about her — she's extremely polite (most of the time), so she uses terms that only old people are accustomed to. Maybe I'm just being rude and stereotypical about these matters. I'm clearly not in a good mood, and that's reflecting on my state of mind.

_I'm not wearing any pants. I'm sure you knew that though — you were, in fact, the one who snooped in my private belongings to procure the raggedy peasant dress I'm wearing at the current moment._

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am?" Mrs. Curtis grins at the new word choice. "Why, you've never said before."

_Well you definitely wouldn't appreciate what I could've said._

I'm only using it to get a free pass out of the house, including an escape from her tormenting smile and her archaic phrases, as well as a no questions asked policy. For once, I am dressed the way Mrs. Curtis wishes me to.

"I'm feeling kind of different today. Rain check?"

"I thought you were terribly excited for the Evaluation." The old lady currently occupying my house like a soldier furrows her brow in genuine confusion. "Besides, attendance is mandatory."

Sometimes, I get so worked up about something, then the day of the event comes around, and my stomach automatically turns sour, and I refuse to leave the couch, however faded and shapeless it is.

I huff, throwing the yellow sponge on the rickety, old table, made out of the finest wood my family could purchase at that time. I hadn't even noticed bringing it downstairs with me. I often clutch things in my hands without knowing.

"I guess I just need to nap—" I slowly drag my feet towards the living room, daring Mrs. Curtis to come and stop me. Perhaps her stiff hair will flutter in her rush to bring me back.

"Oh no you don't!" Mrs. Curtis drags me back from my brief journey to the couch by my collar and looks me straight in my hideous, brown eyes once she's turned me around. "Now you listen here, Florence Mayfield. You will go to the square, and you will be a good girl for the sake of the Community, for they have done wondrous things not only for you, but also for everyone in this society. Do you understand me?"

"Hypocrisy!" I shout, falling back onto the sofa in a haze. "I heard you didn't go one year, Mrs. Curtis, and why was that? Were you _scared_?" I taunt her, staring devilishly into her fearful eyes. "I suppose that's not so different from me..." I tilt upwards for a moment, pausing before I briskly scoot out the door, rage and power filling my dreadful little heart, brimming with so much hate that I cannot pinpoint the source of. Sometimes it happens like this — I feel so powerful that I start labeling things with preposterous names, though it often dulls the intensity. "Thanks for the mom frock."

_I won't be scared from now on. I won't be afraid._

_~~~~~_

I kick rocks along the gravel road, which seems to be my current favorite activity, as life is particularly boring in a sense, even through all the drama that goes on during school. I try to block it out, but it could be healthy for me, to create human connections.

_I sound like a mad scientist — possibly inhuman — experimenting on people. Oh jeez, snap out of it before you die._

Pebbles fit the sides of the path neatly, marking the banks of the wet sand being squashed under my feet. The wind flows through my uncombed hair, weaving through the huge tangles that appear in my fibrous, brown hair.

Some people say they would die for the quality of my hair, specifically the hair dressers when I get my annual haircut with Mrs. Curtis, but I never believed that the birds' nest of my head could be worth anything; I considered it a form of flattery that I wouldn't have, but as always, I thanked them for the thoughtful comment.

As the trees sway back and forth, and I lose my previous trail of thought, I start to wonder about the events that will happen if I'm a good selection for a Candidate, if I match the criteria for a future leader of the Community. Will there be intellectual tests, or maybe a life threatening survival examination?

Pondering this idea, I slam into a pole accidentally.

_Ugh, I'll surely get a bruise for this... Why am I so absently mindless? I bet if I stopped living in the fantasy world, I could actually have friends to keep me busy, so that, well, I won't run into poles. Oh wait. That's not going to happen._

I rub my aching forehead, and I continue on. Thoughts try to push their way into my mindset, but I ignore them, which seems to be taking up most of my capacity, just trying to deflect them like I'm some kind of mind ninja.

_What the heck is a mind ninja?_

A medium-sized jeep in black whizzes by, spraying mud onto the trees, bushes, the trail, and pretty much everywhere, but thankfully, none of the icky, brown substance lands on me.

"Hey, Braniac!" the arrogant, disruptive boys from school yell as they zoom away, waving their arms as if to say "missed out on the party as usual"; I wonder what that suggestion means, because at first, I don't see anyone else, but I then spot two laughing girls who look like the kind of people I'd resent for being so careless.

There's war going on around them. Lives are being lost by the dozen. Resources are scarce for those who cannot access them readily, much like most of the Citizens of the Caligo Province. Just because the war isn't occurring in the Community's grounds doesn't mean its Citizens aren't in grave danger; a portion of them chose to serve their government to continue the flourishing legacy of their home, but at a great cost.

Their children may starve without the financial support of an extra parent at home. The Community promised us a new future, but they refuse to assist those who assist them. Their assurances are protean — no one knows what to trust.

"Yeah, why don't you ever hang out with people? We'd _love_ to have you, darling," one of them with beach blonde hair cackles, winking as the last trace of them diminishes beyond the captivity of my view.

The only part those people would love about me is my antipathy towards them. They'd simply chortle when I sit alone at a table during their parties (I'd stay away from the alcohol that would no doubt be readily present) and scowl at everyone.

_They're going mostly for the free cookies, aren't they?_

I imagine the cocky teenagers hoarding the refreshment and dessert table, stuffing their faces with treats and choking on their lemonade because of their hasty pacing, and a small smile plays on my face as I stare at my ragged shoes.

_By the way, weren't they good a minute ago?_

I do a double take when I realize those jerks ruined my only pair of dress flats, and that the mud had in fact landed on me. A lot.

Most of the shoe is covered with the liquid form of dirt, but some parts of the material were left unscathed, though small dots decorate it.

_Curse you and all of your descendants!_

_~~~~~_

After an hour of walking and worrying about my appearance, however nice it seems to Mrs. Curtis, though I encountered no one to even possibly judge me, I reach the city portion of the Community's smallest Province, Incipiens, where Citizens mill around on bicycles, others jogging with friends to reach the square in time, where they would, too, have the rest of their lives decided — the sixteen year-olds anyway.

Hurrying towards the crowd, I step into the path towards the Gathering Square, where my fate will either make me or break me. I hope for the former. However, destiny isn't always kind to people like me, people who have so much vigor, but will tear down the city if their success isn't directly acquired.

Pan runs towards me, a goofy smile slathered across his tan skin. He slows as he nears, wiggling his eyebrows rapidly, something that could always draw a laugh out of me, the most often occurrence when we were head-deep in schoolwork, an activity that is so dreadful to think about when its premise is disrupted. "How did you even escape the house?" Pan has never had very much faith in me, mainly because of my inexorable demeanor, with the other part being his own wayward demeanor — he never listens and always doubts me so that he can remain "the alpha of the pack".

"It's pretty simple, as Mrs. Curtis is a pretty simple woman."

_Lies, lies, lies, lies._

It required a lot more than Mrs. Curtis' status as a simpleton to so mischievously sneak outside. It enforced sassing beyond compare, something that I wouldn't mind forgetting the techniques of.

"I wouldn't exactly say that."

Ever since Mrs. Curtis took charge and put an end to Pan's schemes (or so she thought — he still continues to prank the day away), he's been wary around her, pleading to walk to his house to be free of the pristine woman's arbitrary glances.

"Well I wouldn't be one to feel confident in your judgment," I retort, giving Pan a steady glare.

In third grade, he told me I would look good with a pink tutu and flashy tights, that it was somehow "school appropriate". I got into so much trouble with the principal, but he only laughed hysterically about it as I grimaced, furious. I'm quite baffled as to why I'm still friends with that weirdo. His judgment means nothing to me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He puts on a fake pouty face, performs a despaired huff, and blinks multiple times in a joking fashion, trying to make me feel bad about my choice of words.

"I'm not apologizing, you doofus. We have to make it to the Gathering Square in time."

He smirks, and we walk on.

"Pan, this is serious," I say, pushing my joking friend away. "This will decide our fate. I want to be special."

Pan has always been the jester type — the most atrocious school stereotype category — playing pranks on everyone he can — even teachers, which appalled me most of all; he seemed to save the most disobedient tricks for them and wound up in detention more than once a week; his mother was never pleased, but she learned to grow used to it.

But I keep using the word, fate, everywhere I go, utilizing it as an excuse to be worked up or avoid doing things, which definitely isn't my intention.

_Wink._

"You already are special."

_The dumpster and the trashcan aren't options. I've heard that one many times from you, yet it never gets funnier, because it never started out that way._

"To whom? This is society. There aren't jokes and I—"

Pan lifts his hands to his chest in an act gesturing for me to subdue my racing thoughts. "Calm down, Florence. I bet on the inside, you don't actually want to be chosen. The Evaluation changes people."

_Don't tell me to calm down, Pan. I will eat all of your mother's cabbages, just you watch me._

The news reports hadn't mentioned anything about Rogue Citizens running amuck, mainly with the Community's promises that the Evaluation is completely safe and controlled in a secured environment. From what I've heard, the Candidates turned out completely fine, maybe even better off. After all, the Evaluation provides them with a higher social status and a place in the government if they should wish to enroll in its services.

Taking a deep breath, I stroll along to the Gathering Square to receive my very improbable hope, whether, as Pan said, it's what I actually desired.

The square looms above me, casting an eerie shadow on the bored Citizens that gathered here. None of them seem to be as excited as I am; they don't have much faith that they will be picked, that they will be important. In fact, neither do I. I'm here out of a special chance, or because it's mandatory, but the hope is somewhere else in this event.

"We have gathered here today to announce the special few who will be lucky enough to participate in the Evaluation," the Director announces, a forced smile on her aging face. "The Evaluation was made twenty-four years ago by our highly esteemed Director Cadent to find future leaders, worthy enough of delivering the Community through highs and lows."

She reaches into her white suit — contrasting with her bronzed skin — for a crisp, light envelope, as if her body hadn't formed it at all, like it was encased in a glass sheet.

"It seems we only have one from the Incipiens Province. Oh, a lovely young lady, I see."

My heart skips a beat, excited that she had narrowed down the possibilities to about half the population of the Province.

_This could be me._

Pressing her red lips together, the Director opens the envelope with much care, making sure the pristine form doesn't crinkle — it seems she spent much effort keeping it perfect. As she opens her mouth, there comes a strong hope to be chosen, even if it means leaving Pan. Fear blooms in my stomach, and I clench my fists, preparing for the worst, yet desiring the best.

She opens her mouth to reveal the Candidate, but closes it after a few seconds of hesitation, folding the letter back into its envelope.

_What's she doing? There has to be an Evaluation Candidate. It's required. She can't just revoke the tradition! Why am I so angry?_

"But the sixteen year olds will have to check by the post office to reveal if they have received their Evaluation letter. Meanwhile, the adults and children can enjoy the beverages and snacks, including nutritious varieties, such as lemonade, granola bars, and peanuts, though we ask those with peanut allergies and aversions to please refer to the peanut-free snack table located across from the regular one. Don't worry, kids! It has the same snacks, excluding the nuts."

This is the first time one of the Directors has ever done something as outrageous as this, defying the standard procedure of the Gathering Square Evaluation announcement. Ever since Director Damon was elected, she's been calling for perverse tactics, throwing all of the administrators off-guard. I don't trust her decisions.

My stomach plummets, and I lower my shoulders, trudging from the Gathering Square with an expression laced with contempt, while the small kids dart to the snack table as their tired parents attempt weakly to hold them back by the collars of their shirts.

"I was hoping she would tell us right then," I tell Pan as he jogs up next to me, a sweet simper — more accurately, smirk — present on his lips.

To be completely honest, I wasn't just hoping, like I said to Pan. My insides were burning with smoldering butterflies planning their jailbreak. I was full blown relying on Director Damon telling us then — I couldn't wait any longer; after nine months, it's already been too long for my anticipation to be fully armed and ready for battle.

"You thought."

"Well I'm not a 'young lady', so at least I'm not it. You have a better chance now."

Pan's been insistent on that fact since as long as I can remember, but I find it amusing how much he tries to defend his case, slipping it in casually in everyday conversations, but his sense of casual, however, isn't so normal.

Following the mob of agitated teenagers, I finally reach the post office, where a winding line of kids awaits the contents of their P.O. Box.

"Want to cut the line?" Pan suggests, cocking his eyebrows.

His morals aren't what I would call compatible with mine. He assumes the form of an unruly Citizen that cannot be punished because of certain reasons (he's a Minor, and the government isn't aware of his shenanigans).

"You know I never do that."

"You're missing out on lots. Remember those many times when you missed lunch at school because you were waiting for an eternity, or when the snack bar ran out of ice cream sandwiches before you even made it to the half-way point? I remember you were craving those little bricks of ice like a potato craves other potatoes that day. You wouldn't take no for an answer. In fact, more than once, you went Rogue and tried to slap the ice cream guy."

At almost every event with rowdy children, this happens, but I don't inform him of that fact — it's more firepower to assist his maniacal schemes in overthrowing my stability.

"I wanted to keep my ethical mental records perfect."

Pan scoffs, brushing the hair out of his eyes nonchalantly. "'Ethical mental records'."

After ten minutes, the line progresses significantly, to the point where Pan and I are at the head of the line, and we enter quickly, brushing past the delaying children.

Pan simply trails behind me, anxiously peering over my shoulder as if it were him being chosen.

Taking slow steps, I approach my box, fingers crossed in apprehension. Scooting by a tall boy clad in a button down and loafers, a jubilant sight waits before me.

Tucked inside the small square of my post office cubby is a medium-sized, tan envelope resting on its side. It leans on the wall of the compartment, though it appears formal in my eyes, more so than it actually is — it was placed inside carelessly.

"Well would you look at that?" Pan exclaims.

My heart soars, if just for a moment, until I'm escorted to the stage a block away by an official waiting by the door, my face burning bright as a tomato as I imagine shaking Director Damon's hand, dense with her excessive use of lotion.

Pan follows like a puppy to its owner, skipping happily along the roads as the guard leads me towards the Gathering Square.

Practically tripping up the stairs on either end of the stage, my limbs shake as I draw nearer to the official-looking woman standing before me. The Director's formed lips tighten in her attempt to shape a smile.

"Congratulations," she whispers in my ear.

_It was me._

The last thing I see before being escorted into the building is Pan's worried face, as he shakes his head, tears sliding down his cheeks, always so unexpected. "You don't want this," he mouths, but the doors have already slammed closed, and I am dragged down the hall, forgetting all that had happened.

But what does Pan know? He never supported my goals anyway, only laughed about them like they were too far-fetched and childish to comprehend. To be fair, his biggest dreams are to be crowned the prank king by our strict principal, Mr. Sevrin, someone who never tolerated his antics. Pan doesn't matter.

I am starting a new life.

 


	3. Anticipation

_The interests of the Citizens have always been a priority_

_of the Community's government. For that reason, certain sacrifices must_  
be made to ensure the security and stability of the area and its Provinces.  
This includes the Evaluation, with its dangerous trials for the progression  
of the Community.

 _-_ The Citizens' Purpose _, page 99_

_~~~~~_

"Come with me, Florence." The Director's cold grip on my arm sends chills down my spine as her press-on red fingernails dig into my skin. I try flexing so that her fingers are brought farther to the surface instead of puncturing my flesh.

The guards should make sure that Director Damon never touches me again, but there aren't any around, much to my astonishment and displeasure. Usually, they line the halls, watching anyone who passes like a hawk searching for prey. In school, we were given pictures of this place, and thus, my phobia manifested.

"Where are we going?" I ask, somewhat too rebelliously.

"Oh, just to your chambers. They're quite nice, really. I thought it would be a good idea to pamper the Candidates before the Evaluation."

That's the first pleasant thing Director Damon has done for me ever — the first pleasant thing Director Damon has done even for the Community.

Once she was elected, things started to go south. Rage and greed corrupted her heart, turning her to stone as she belted out outrageous laws to restrict the citizens from even moving a muscle. Hopefully, someone more proper will take her place next year.

"That's, um, kind." A hesitant smile grows on my face as I'm pulled along, but it's only for curb appeal, an affectionate outward appearance to keep her favorable, biased opinion of me intact.

After about ten seconds of walking, the Director stops, checking both ways for any guards (she's successful, as their absence is quite noticeable).

As the tall, wooden doors open, I gasp, taking in my surroundings of sumptuous fabrics and untouched robes, made from the rarest silk. The windows are drawn open, illuminating the vibrant room, creating a heavenly glow that makes my insides tingle with anticipation.

"You like it?" the Director asks, a small smile displayed on her face.

I nod vigorously as I step forward, unsure of where to go from there.

"Well it's yours for the time being."

"I want to know about the Evaluation. When will I meet the other Candidates?"

Director Damon glances at the marble floor, biting her luscious lips and contemplating my question. I'm merely attempting to push my luck — she doesn't strike me as the kind of person who reveals many things about her plan, yet, strangely enough, I'm confident in the fact that she has a very well sculpted one.

She notices the battered state of my flats and sighs derisively. I wish I could tell Pan what those two jerks did (if he were around), but he would probably giggle wildly at it, and I would be left to mark a tally in my mental journal of times Pan's been insensitive.

"I can't tell you anything about the Evaluation yet, but do not fear; there _are_ other Candidates, I assure you. Besides, you'll discover soon." The Director speaks as if she has places to go, even if her instructions from the Evaluation Director were to provide comfort to the Candidates. Her hands twitch nervously, looking all around, once again, for the guards. It reminds me of the annoying habit of pulling my hands in odd directions, led by my fingers — Mrs. Curtis noticed and told me it was an effect of tight muscles, but the only medical experience she possesses is watching the nurse shove thermometers into kids' ears at her school when she worked as an assistant in her free period.

If I'm to be competing, or whatever it is that I'm supposed to be doing, then it's crucial that I understand at least something about the other players, supremely if they have an unfair advantage over me by being given more information.

I nod, somewhat displeased at the lack of appeasement, but I know it will be fine; I have full trust in the Community and their methods. That is what I have been taught, and that is what I shall stick to until the end. The Community is the key to happiness. Or...I suppose that's what school wants me to think; I'm finally forming my own opinions.

"Well I'll leave you to it," the Director says promptly, shutting the doors. She attempts to do so softly, but the heavy weight presses down and creates a deafening boom, shaking me from my trance.

"Right then."

~~~~~

My hands slide through my hair, trying to take away the knots in my rat's nest. Hitching my fingers in a bump, I unhook my fingers, annoyed at my lack of progress.

A sharp, quick knock erupts on the door, and I leap to answer it. I start, halfway through my journey down a lock of hair, kicking my legs off the bed and rushing to answer.

"Hello, miss." A short maid dressed in black and white curtsies, and I am at once taken aback at her politeness. "I've come to change the sheets, miss."

The sheets looked fairly clean when I came inside... Do they automatically feel compelled to replace them once they assume someone could've made the slightest contact with them?

"You really don't have to call me that."

She's the only person who's ever returned my manners — ma'am and sir were always a favorite with the adults, earning me a respectable title among them. They would sometimes even invite me over to babysit their children for the night while they were at an event. I was almost the only one at school who did that. I've never been addressed in such a way, but it immediately feels awkward. I've always expected the sensation of the short words to bring great pride, as if it's like a coming-of-age trial, but I'm deeply disappointed.

"Okay, miss."

"I'm serious."

"But—"

"It's _okay_ ," I tell her, taking her rough hands in mine.

She jumps a bit, surprised that I could have such contact with her.

I frown, disappointed at her fidgety countenance. I wish she would become comfortable with me. "I am your equal."

_What importance I'm making of this seems completely unnecessary and yet..._

"You are very kind, m — Florence."

The fact that she took the time to learn my name, even if it's part of the ritualistic training the maids undergo, makes my heart swell with joy. I only hope I can reciprocate the generosity.

"Now that I've seen that you know my title, it's only fair that I learn yours."

Fear paints every corner of her rounded face, her eyes flashing with concern as she glances around the room to discover some cleaning job she will excuse herself to get off to — she finds nothing (the place is miraculously spotless.) Stuttering as she labors to select the right words, she finally stammers, "Kalila. My name is Kalila."

"Nice to meet you, Kalila." A smile curls on my lips, my eyes glowing for the first time in years — there aren't plentiful occasions where I gain the opportunity to meet new people without my nervousness crashing in and shattering my confidence.

I hope I've made her more free-moving, though she might be growing even more anxious on the inside — she's just been trained to hide it, which is quite the unfortunate truth; no one can tell if she's melting internally.

It's somewhat troubling that someone so beautiful could hide behind their hands quite like Kalila does. I envy her long, black hair, tied up in a tight bun atop her head, and also her eyes, a much prettier shade of brown than mine. Even her voice, thick with an accent I can only recognize as South American (the only reason I know is because of a brief explanation of the continents from my first grade teacher), seems to fill my ears with the sound of a sweet melody.

Nodding her head, the maid steps past me, gazing longingly at the elegant sheets that she possesses in her hand. She gives a small smile and sets out to work. I can tell I eased her worry, as she tries weakly to smother a growing grin overthrowing her meek demeanor.

"I can help with that," I offer, feeling bad that she must address and serve me in this way. I step forward, extending my arms to complete the gesture of compensation.

"No, but thank you. You are requested by the Director."

 _What could she_ want?

I wonder if she finally changed her mind about absolute secrecy that shadows my chance for knowledge. I don't even know the others' genders, or even their names, the most plain of things, things that are tackled when first meeting someone for the first time.

Thought swirl in my head, and a wave of nostalgia hits me like a cannon, stopping me in my tracks.

"Pan," I whisper, remembering how the tears had slipped down his worried face as I was dragged into the Community building...

_He's gone, Florence. He's not coming back. But where is he now? Is he all right? What did they do with him?_

"I'm sorry, Miss?" Kalila looks up from her chores of tearing the bedsheets from the mattress, watching as one end flings back from the far corner, her face alive with an unsure expression.

"Oh, nothing. He was just my friend from back home."

"You say that like you're long gone." Her face wrinkles in confusion, miffed as to why I speak so distantly. She collects the fitted sheet in her arms, tossing them in the basket nailed into her cart. "If it's my place to say so," Kalila adds, red-faced.

Her reticence shocks me. I come from a place where I could speak my mind and not be constantly mocked for it. I wouldn't have to approach a group with a flaming face (though my lack of certainty wills otherwise); I could express my true opinions without fear. One of the perks of living in the tiniest Province. To be fair, however, most of the locals are a bit...odd.

"You can say whatever you want in here. I couldn't honestly care less. I'm not from Epistylium or anything — I don't take informality to the heart."

In Epistylium, home of the Community's headquarters, everything is strictly business. The Citizens dress in fancy attire, clothes that I can only dream of possessing, usually complimented with parasols, magnificent hats, and lace for the women, and suits, ties, and top hats for the men.

Kalila sighs in relaxation, unfolding an unwrinkled sheet to splay across the bed. They bunch up at the end, flying back when she endeavors to slide them down the corners. When deemed unsuccessful, she shifts the mattress slightly and tucks it in fleetly.

"Florence," Kalila starts, still growing accustomed to the name, "you should be leaving to discuss things with Director Damon. I can take care of cleaning." She flourishes the soft words with a slight simper, blushing sheepishly against her golden skin. "Also, you'll be taking dinner in the dining room afterwards. You'll need to come back here first so we can get you dressed up. I suspect you'll be alone — I've been directed not to tell you anything about the Evaluation beyond that there simply is one, so the Director definitely won't let you converse with your fellow Candidates."

My heart sinks, realizing that Kalila, too, is sworn to secrecy. I was hoping at least someone would hint at even a miniscule fragment of the plan into which I am being forcefully thrown into. I feel that I deserve that much.

Smoothing back my hair from my interrupted expedition of untangling the frenzy, I pull open the door with great effort. I spot the tendon in my arm bulge out of my skinny figure.

A bony hand pats my shoulder, and I flinch slightly. Their touch lingers on my clothes, taking a lot of power to erase it from my mind.

"It's just me," the Director assures, but I still feel myself worry — I wouldn't try to calm someone down by telling them you're the head of the government; it means danger for a lot of people. "We've a lot to discuss."

"I do hope you've summoned me to explain why I'm here."

"Summoned?" she chuckles. "What interesting word choice."

Pan always reminds me of my strange dialect, my diction so bizarre and different from his, which consists of short, guttural noises and choked-out words being shoved up his throat by his laughter.

"Hardly."

She presses her lips together, now understanding my seriousness. Her attempts to spark a laidback conversation failed miserably. "Then let's get down to business."

Director Damon guides me down the long, winding halls, filled with ravishing paintings of the previous Directors, all gloriously poised, as if to strike fear and respect into our hearts, though somehow at the same time; it seems implausible to me. I cringe at their condescending expressions, however.

"This was Director Cadent, the founder of the Evaluation. What a gem he was!"

A gem? I wouldn't exactly describe him like that. I stare at his long, pointed nose, as he holds up his Community election certificate with such dignity. Something doesn't seem right about him, though I can't directly put my finger on it.

I ponder this as we meander through the endless expanse of wooden corridors, turning left, right, right, right, left and finally stopping abruptly in front of daunting, wooden doors.

"Ah, here we are."

Director Damon takes a small, golden key from her crisp suit and slips it into the lock. She seems to fumble with it for a moment, but she eventually gets the hang of it. With a satisfying click, the door swings open with great ease.

The pungent smell of apples fills my nostrils, and I relax immediately, regardless of my prior intent to be as keen as possible.

_What a drag that is. Why don't I just... stay for a while?_

It reminds me of home, baking pies with my mother during the holiday season. I would always plunge my hands into the flour, despite my mom's stern warning not to, or else I wouldn't get any of the dessert, but sometimes we would end up having a fervent battle resulting in a face as white as the snow coming down outside, totally abandoning our earlier idea of cooking treats.

As I advance through my journey into the room, the formerly delicious odor turns rotten as I take a look around her office, collecting information about the fraudulent scheme the Community seems to be planning.

This isn't what I expected it to be.

It isn't as grand as her office in Epistylium's headquarters, but it comes in as a close second. The walls are painted crimson red, like the color of falling autumn leaves that crunch under your boots. Figurines of birds are perched atop the shelves, scattered across the room to invoke a desire to count them all. Their markings and feathers are somewhat undistinguishable; they must be from the pre-Community days. Now, most of the winged creatures are kept in captivity to prevent extinction.

I only know about birds because of a zoo field trip I took in seventh grade. While in the classroom, my teacher had enthralled us with pictures and details about birds, and we could barely contain our joy when we found out that we'd be travelling to the Epistylium Zoo. The elation built from the mere prospect of allowance into the most busy and fruitful Province.

I continue on, realizing that Director Damon has made her way to the glass table, coffee mugs lined along the edge, waiting for someone to drink from them.

"Please have a seat, Ms. Mayfield."

A silent maid quickly steps forward and pulls out the chair for me to rest, scooting back to her post in the corner as soon as she's finished.

"Thank you," I whisper, but her eyes widen in terror. Confused, I glance at the Director, but she just shrugs.

"You don't have to talk to them at all."

_I wish I didn't have to talk to you, yet here I am. I just want to get this over with and proceed to the actual Evaluation. Oh, and did I mention how rude you are?_

"I quite like to. I don't understand why I can't speak freely to people, regardless of profession."

Considering I come from the Incipiens Province, where chatting is all we do (and without discrimination), my words make me seem like a hero to the Director, but I know I'm not — a simple fact that only my Province understands is that we never shut up.

"Florence... You are a high member of society now, and that means you are expected to do what is socially appropriate. Conversing with peasants" — the Director pauses, considering another word — " _maids_ is not something esteemed people should be doing."

We were taught many fundamental ideals in kindergarten — and even before that — about the Community's social standards, and one of them is there are only Citizens. There aren't "high members of society". The Community strives to be equal in almost every aspect.

Her phrasing is especially brutal, but the mere audacity of it is so destructive that I am humiliated to be in the same room as her, though, by the looks of it, not as humiliated as the small girl shaking tearfully next to me; the maid's knees tremble as she looks at the floor, ashamed.

"Chin up!" Director Damon roars. "You will not look disgraceful, do you hear me?"

She nods quickly, lifting her chin up so that it's almost vertical, only to please the angered head of the Community.

"I do not want to see your Adam's apple!"

The maid is taken aback by this comment, considering her female status, but merely tilts her chin down to the perfect level, and the Director is finally content.

"Where were we?"

I look at my lap in silence, trying to forget the events that just transpired around me.

 _You were helpless, Florence. It's not your fault._ I try to tell myself this, but it doesn't work. My will is too strong. That could eventually break me — I could crumble and fall away, with nothing left to prove I existed.

~~~~~

After an hour of listening to Director Damon blither about politics (also, something about "a bright future") and twirling a small strand of hair while pretending to be paying attention, the Director finally releases me, closing her folder and shutting off the projector.

I perk up at the clicking noise of the machine dying down until its next use. This means it's time to leave, perhaps consume foods packed with miraculously appealing nutrients and flavor soon after I return to my room.

"That's all for today, Florence. Thank you for your cooperation."

While I recognize the importance of being attentive, mainly because of my previous elation associated with the Evaluation and all its relations, I simply cannot force myself to remain awake while the Director spiels about what's to come in the Community, only stimulated — weakly — by the constant droning of the generator out back and the clicking of my fingernails upon the wooden surface of the table.

Releasing a prostrated sigh, I shove my chair back, flinging open the door before Director Damon can even stand. She opens her mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the booming sound of the door shutting in her face.

My stomach swelling with hunger, I rush back to my room to get ready for dinner alone, or so Kalila expects. Somehow, I managed to memorize the path we took to get to the Director's office, and I am able to return safely and without getting lost too often.

Kalila must've heard my hushed footsteps, for when I reach for the handle, it suddenly flies right open, a young face smiling before me.

"Hello, Miss Florence," she beams. It seems she's come to a compromise between the two titles. "Did you enjoy your meeting with Director Damon?"

Stepping past Kalila in a sliding movement, I chuckle, kicking off my shoes and flopping onto the bed. "You could say that."

"So...I'm guessing it didn't go so well?"

I shake my head in response, with my face buried into the memory foam mattress.

"Well it's time to get you properly dressed for dinner."

I lift my head from the bed, staring at Kalila in confusion. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

She takes in my ragged appearance, pursing her lips to contain the overflowing distaste for it. While it is her expected duty to dress me in the most luxurious items in her power, I can't help but consider her current expression as personal. "Miss Florence, I think you'll enjoy what I have set out for you." A mischievous smile plays on Kalila's lips as she pauses for a moment, then tiptoeing to the closet beside the entrance to the room.

Drawing back the two doors slowly, a smirk ever present upon her face, she pulls out a bright green dress, adorned with ruffles and a humungous hoop skirt. The torso section shines, the sleeves covering only the shoulders in two big poofs. The design on the bottom reminds me of the flowers I used to pick with my mother — roses as red as blood and as soft as my young cheeks.

"Do you like it?" Kalila asks hopefully, gathering her arms close to her chest as she waits for a reply. "I thought it would go nicely with your light brown hair."

Once again, someone compliments the thin strands of who knows what hanging from my scalp — I honestly cannot see the stunning aspects that they do; it's just so plain.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, stepping closer to examine the magnificent gown.

There isn't much royalty in Incipiens, but it's the closest to Epistylium (though, somehow, the two are incredibly diverse, acting as if they were the farthest apart), where most of the action takes place. A dress like this would sell for thousands of dollars in the market! It could feed a family for...who even knows how long; I've seen nothing like it.

"I was thinking I could leave my hair down, just the way it is," I suggest, to which Kalila nods steadily, her mind elsewhere.

Digging through the closet, Kalila stumbles upon a pair of matching high-heels and draws them out carefully. She holds them up to her face, as if to ask for my approval.

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach from inexperience, but I oblige to her request to slip them onto my small feet — a perfect fit.

I've never worn high heels before, mostly because of the lack of luxury in my home, but from what I've seen on television, I can assume mastering the contraptions takes loads of practice. I never grasped the motives for wearing those torture devices upon something so mundane — and yet essential for movement.

Immediately, my ankle gives out, and I fall to the side, but, thankfully, Kalila is there to catch me, titling me upright again with a soft snicker. I thank her in a faint tone, righting myself before taking a deep breath for the path ahead.

Bracing myself for the journey to the dining room, I steady myself by outstretching my arms to balance the weight. Step by step, I inch towards the exit of the room, biting down on my lip in my struggle. I suddenly halt, slamming my hand into the wall to hold onto it as I sluggishly move by, removing my teeth from my skin.

Halfway through my voyage out of the door, Kalila stops, placing a finger to her lips and inspecting my outfit. "Would you consider settling for something a little more...flat?"

I nod desperately, pointing at the pair of shoes she holds up (black, with green buckles, showcasing my new white knee socks). "You're a life saver."

Kalila giggles, rushing over to remove my current footwear and replace it with the more comfortable selection. "I've been called that before."

With Kalila's gentle demeanor, a sweet simper a sporadic factor of her generosity, my heart only has sizes to grow. It strikes me that she could be the best Director the Community's ever seen. I just know she'll strive to eliminate all that is unjust in our grafting government system. She'll work into the late hours of the night to complete the draft for a new bill to be presented to the officials. She could turn things around for the better; it would be a misfortune if something were to happen to her in my absence.

"I think I'm ready," I announce, brushing my skirt to be devoid of wrinkles. "Thanks so much for your help, Kalila."

Kalila blushes at my use of her name, casting her eyes to the wooden floors to hide the fire blazing upon her cheeks. "It's nothing, Miss Florence."

Gathering my dress in my hands, ruffles poking out from in between my fingers, I twist the knob fixed on the door, stepping out into the crisp air of the hallway. For extra effect, I decide to speak her title once again to deliver an even darker shade of red to the maid's tan face. "Have a nice night, Kalila."

"You, too" — Kalila pauses, collecting her courage to utter one simple word — "Florence."

~~~~~

A sour feeling painting the walls of my stomach, I trudge along towards the dining room, without a clue regarding its whereabouts. Every fruitful section of the compound seems to be located towards the back of the building, meaning I'll have to walk for a few minutes to the right of my room.

Fiddling with the skirt of my dress surprisingly eases my nervous restlessness, acting as a sedative to my wandering fingers that itch to pursue every inch of their surroundings.

A paper sign encased in a plastic shield waits before me, the bold letters, Dining Hall, printed directly in the middle, making it appear sophisticated; at least to my green senses.

My hands shake as I reach forward to grasp the handle to the ginormous doors presented in front of my small, timid form. I can't pinpoint why, exactly, I'm feeling so anxious, for Kalila told me I would be eating alone. I'm supposed to trust her.

Gripping the metal object bolted into the wood, I thrust open the doors to reveal an exorbitantly lit feast just waiting to be consumed. Platters upon platters of fruit, vegetables, meat, and varieties of bread decorate the narrow, shaded table running towards the back of the room. For each chair, there is a silver plate meticulously set out for guests to join the celebration, though I was assured they will not tonight.

Hovering my eyes over the sight, I saunter to a tall chair nearly in the middle of the spread, pulling it out with a screeching displeasure. I scoot myself in, taking a deep breath before I plunge into the bountiful dinner exuberantly awaiting my probing hands.

Just as I'm about to introduce a chicken leg to my shining plate, the room becomes alive with sound. I glance to the door to find a drunken figure stumbling in, a thin, green straw tucked in his fist — a bit old-fashioned, if I do say so myself.

"Is this the book club?" he slurs, falling over before he rights himself again.

"Book club?" I stutter, cautiously retracting my hand from the food.

"Yeah, book club. Can't you hear?"

Mrs. Curtis always warned me about drunk people ("Alcohol does strange things to the mind. I advise you not to down too much of it during one sitting."), especially men. They can become particularly aggressive, she told me.

But as I glare at the disheveled person wobbling before me, I can't dismiss the slight feeling of amusement at his altered gait and composure.

"My maid, Kalila, she's called," I start, reminding myself of the kind girl currently cleaning my chambers, "informed me I'd be seated at a table of just me, but" — I gaze at the abundance of nutrients resting in their glory — "there's enough to feed a whole village. How would you feel about joining me?"

The boy simply stares at me, his grey eyes hopelessly blank. "Listen, lady," he drawls. "I don't have time for this. I have...to get...back to...chess..." He collapses, falling to the floor in a mess.

His motives for playing chess while throwing a whole lot of alcohol down his throat must've escaped me, for I can detect nothing logical. Chess is a game of strategy and concentration, not pushing pieces around and hoping they fit. That isn't what real leaders do, though I don't suppose the Community has had many of those lately.

Sighing, I meet him, lifting his body to acquaint itself with the chair nearest me. It takes a while — and a whole lot of effort — but I manage to seat him comfortably, albeit his head still hangs off the side of the furniture.

The dimwitted Citizen's eyes flick open abruptly, whipping his head around as if his hands are bound together with no way of escape.

"I believe it's time to behave," I remind him, tearing a copious amount of chicken from its bone and washing it down with lemonade from the pitcher in front of me.

"I'm Ezra, what about you?" the boy states bluntly, shoving an outstretched hand in my direction for me to shake.

"Florence," I reply, curling my lip upward in distaste as I take his clammy fingers in my own.

"Ooh, is this _wheat_?" Ezra exclaims, dropping my hand into my empty plate with a thud as he snatches a roll from the basket.

"Do you have some sort of wheat fetish?" I question, annoyed at his indisputably childish, ferial behavior.

Ezra glares at me, his mouth twisted into an odd shape. "Stop asking so many questions. You're starting to get on my nerves."

I scoff. _His_ nerves? He's the one who crashed in through the doors in a drunken state, clutching a green bendy straw like it's his most prized possession, then proceeding to caress "a product of wheat".

"Go enjoy your chess game, you peasant," I quip, throwing the remnants of my strawberry back onto the plate where it swims in its own juices. "Try not to hurt anybody while you're at it."

I rise, tossing my napkin into my chair and storming out of the Dining Hall. I wish I could've seen the appalled expression painting Ezra's face, but I'm so engulfed in rage that I don't dare ruin my streak of dramatic exits by turning to face him.

Once I've made sure I'm out of hearing distance — though the density of the doors would prevent much audible contact — I laugh; I simply laugh, slamming my back against the wall. It feels nice to do that, to let all of my emotions fly free without the imminent fear of being judged looming over me.

Knocking on the door to my chambers, Kalila answers, beaming as she blocks me with her body from observing the farther portions of the room.

"Hello, Miss Florence," she spouts, trying her best to keep her giggles inside.

"Kalila, why are you shielding me like that?"

Her face contorts, searching for a plausible explanation as to why I'm still standing in the hallway, my heels aching from overuse. "Fine, I'll tell you."

Kalila shifts so that she's parallel to the open door, uncovering a large tray of sweets of every kind parked at the foot of my bed.

"Did you do this?" I ask, my breath being swept away into a shaking waltz.

Kalila nods, blushing furiously. "I worked something out with the kitchen staff while you were off partying. I figured you needed some extra treats to calm you for tomorrow's big day."

Without intending to, I had completely forgotten about the Evaluation. Even though I've only been here for a few hours, I feel that I've assimilated into the regal lifestyle of the building's inhabitants. What seemed like the centerpiece of my life is now a mere side thought, only reflected upon when brought up in conversation.

"Thank you," I gush, enveloping Kalila in a warm embrace. "I love it."

Scurrying over to my bed, I select a rectangular box of assorted chocolates, removing the lid and taking a delighted whiff of the sugary delicacies. I sense some peanut butter, some coconut, some nuts, and many more things that make my nostrils tingle with jubilance.

"Come join me," I invite, patting a spot on the bed next to me.

Kalila's face grows shadowy with hesitation, but after an encouraging smile, she obliges, smoothing her skirt as she sits.

Hovering her fingers over a dark chocolate candy, she plucks it out, wiggling it to remove the wrapper without using her other hand. Without warning, Kalila stuffs it into her mouth, her eyes alit with bliss.

"Do you like them?" I tease, popping a peanut butter flavored one between my lips (I was never one for coconut.)

"I should be asking you that question, Miss Florence!" Kalila asserts. "But yes, they're fantastic."

"You did a good job, Kalila," I praise, moaning in satisfaction when I bite into the creamy, delicious center of my chocolate. The flavors swirl around on my tongue, coating the roof of my mouth in a blanket of sweetness.

As we dive deeper into the candies, Kalila and I giggle until our sides hurt. Exultancy hangs in the air like a halo around us, blessing our two forms with everlasting glee before the sun rises in the morning.

~~~~~

The pages of the book tempting me on the table beside me flutter gently from the breeze flowing from the window, calling me towards it. I slide my hands out from under the soft covers of the bed to reach for it.

The hard cover brushes the cool surface of the plaid material of the comforter, blue flecked with green, as I open to the first page. I take a deep breath before entrancing myself in the journey of someone else.

After a while, I find myself dozing off, so I return the book to its original place and nestle my head into the pillow, filled with delicate goose feathers that poke out in a few places, irritating me, which was obviously not the intention.

_Maybe you should stop taking feathers from these geese — or my blood from the sharp edges. Get some better pillows!_

_I am quite the personality in my head, aren't I?_ _How quaint._

Tossing and turning for what seems like a century, I relax into a suitable position for my erratic resting patterns.

Soon enough, the stray thoughts collide with my mental garbage can, and I drift off to a sleeping state, perilous dreams clouding my perception.

Nothing matters here. Not anymore.

~~~~~

I awake to the brilliant sun flooding my bedchamber, and I appear to be a squinting mess. My hair is a birds' nest, though lacking the thorns, and I can only infer that I'll look like a vampire again once I gaze longingly in the mirror, as if some aspect of my appearance had shifted overnight.

A deafening screech reverberates around the room, and I clutch my ears defensively, closing my eyes to block out the sound in whatever way I can, however illogical.

Suddenly, I hear a clicking noise spring from the door, and a metal tray slides out speedily, containing a neatly folded outfit.

Unsticking my legs from my mattress and its billowy sheets, I amble to the door to see what the platter has brought me on this eventful day. I lift the fabric to my face, studying it intently. It's a black outfit and jacket set, possibly used to capture the sun.

_It must be cold there. I hate the cold. Though it's the first day of March, so it might be warming up._

_Along with the clothing, a tan messenger bag lays loosely on top. Its contents are currently unknown — I'm too lazy to check. I can only infer that they're essential for life in the Evaluation's trials._

_Perhaps it contains food, water, and maybe even a lucky rain poncho for when life gets rough — or the sky. One of those compact tents made last year could be inside, tucked away neatly just like the advertisement had promised._

I slip into the garments, somewhat loose on me, and I venture out of the room, where I will have to interact with other humans — marvelous.

The icy hallway appears to be empty. I take a look around and decide to keep on my way, attempting to discover the cafeteria.

 _It must be here somewhere. I don't suppose the Community is trying to starve me before they set me loose into whatever trials they have planned._ _I hope._

After wandering around hopelessly for ten dreadful minutes, I eventually find the desired destination.

A glass dome towers above the structure, casting light everywhere, but no one seems to be alive anymore — I haven't seen anyone.

_Are they purposefully avoiding me? Were they so disgusted with my shoes that they made a note of eating earlier and locking my door so I couldn't join them?_

I fling open the doors carelessly, though sealing them behind me carefully. The facility is completely vacant, except for my small body standing like a deer in the headlights.

A cooler rests at the edge of the room, stocked with milk, orange juice, apple juice, and water, all submerged in ice. A stack of trays lay lackluster on the metal panel used to slide them along, waiting for someone to load it with food of every variety — bagels, doughnuts, fruit, pancakes, waffles, eggs, and bacon are all supplied in front of the tray pile, like they're illuminated by my loudly growling stomach.

Walking forward in the strong belief that I'll be able to obtain the adequate nourishment I need through food and water, I soon pause, noticing a slight chill in the air.

I rub my shoulders to keep the goosebumps at bay, but it's never worked very effectively for me.

A gloved hand reaches out, cold and made of leather, with rough stitching in the sides, and cups it to my mouth, and my heart stops for a moment, until the figure drags me along. My breathing sharpens, and I grow faint as I breathe in the anesthesia, a mask pressed against my face.

"How...bout...you... _don't_ ," I drawl, growing weak as the medicine sings me to sleep like a deadly lullaby in the arms of a murderer. I mumble hopelessly, but it's no use.

 


	4. Confusion

_Education is an important concept. It starts with_

_one mind, spreads to another, and soon fertilizes_  
a whole community. Growth is essential to learning,   
for mistakes are common enough to be respected.

 _-_ Handbook for the Incipiens Province School _, page 1_

_~~~~~_

Crunching leaves.

Fear.

My body being thrashed around.

Pain.

The grinding of metal.

Anger.

Sunlight blinds me, and I scrunch my face into a squinting mess, blocking the rays with my clammy hand, though it still shines through like water pouring through a broken dam.

_What is this place?_

I look around, attempting to collect sensory clues by sniffling to the point where I'm crazily snorting, the process burning the back of my throat.

 _Why are people just so much better at snorting than I am? Why can't I have a talent for it, so it at least won't hurt?_ _Why am I even thinking about this?_

_There is no sign of life anywhere, not even plants. Remnants of leaves are strewn about the tan sand, though that's pretty much it, aside from pebbles, rocks, and the occasional boulder stuck in my path — and, as I squint tighter, a structure in the distance._

I slowly rise, knees shaking, and my head swims with pain, a pounding feeling erupting inside. A throbbing sensation stampedes through my whole body, throwing me off kilter.

_Clang, clang, clang, clang._

Soon realizing that there's no one here, I shudder and start walking with desperation for the prospect of finding someone, or at least _something_. The monotonous landscape flashes through my vision, passing the same image over and over again, when in reality, the sight is always changing.

_I'm insane, aren't I? That must be why I'm here._

Minutes turn to hours, and I watch as the sunlight slowly fades away from the sky, the heatwaves diminishing from view. I collapse to the ground, burying my face in the chilling sand, trying to fall into the haze of unconsciousness like I did the night before, blissful and sweet — merciful.

~~~~~

As I wander through the desolate expanse of dry, crunchy leaves and blowing sand that attacks my eyes, I start to question if there really are more Candidates around, or if this is an individual testing for a greater whole. In fact, I have no idea why I'm here in the first place, besides the oblique mention of the Evaluation.

_Are they trying to kill me?_

The blurred thoughts jumble through my head, electrified by the boredom that kicking stray rocks erupts.

The wind shifts slightly, leaving a cold presence in its wake. It creates a terror that could only seem childish, yet I know it left the area cooler. Eerie, sickening, suspicious.

_Whatever._

I try to step forward, but cold metal presses against my neck, stopping me in my tracks. "Found you," a chilling voice whispers in my ear, making me shudder like doors through a storm.

My knees start to wobble, and my vision becomes hazy, all out of fear. It seems I do everything out of fear.

"Why the scared countenance?" he purrs, drawing the blade nearer when I flinch. "We're a _team_."

I can hardly concentrate with the sharp item so close to my neck. I feel my consciousness fading, about to faint. Black dots surround my view, flashing in and out in every direction.

"Then let me go," I finally demand, quite surprised at my progress.

With a second of hesitation, the boy removes the knife, and my heart-rate returns to a steady beat, though still somewhat quickened from my close encounter.

"Who are you anyway?" My forehead scrunches.

"The name's Sparrow. Peter Sparrow."

I look him up and down, taking in his figure dressed in black pants, black suspenders, and a loose white shirt. "Well I'm—"

"Florence," he deadpans.

"How'd you know?" Cocking my head, I draw in my breath.

"I know everything about you," he laughs, slipping his knife into the leather holster on his skinny right forearm — left-handed most likely — where he stores quite the array of daggers. "We all do."

_What does this peasant mean? Greeting someone with a knife to the neck isn't customary, but I can dig it. If, of course, that means I can get answers, some leverage to overthrow him._

"We? What do you mean? Frankly, I'm surprised there's anyone here beside me."

Until a few minutes ago, my thoughts were that the Community placed me here alone, because I'm not adequate for their experiments. This boy can't hold me accountable for my lack of information on the subjects he's bringing up.

"Come on, the Director must've mentioned the other bloody Candidates."

"Well, yes."

Before I can clarify the circumstances, why I don't know anything, Peter concludes, "Then there you go."

"But she didn't describe them at all, not even names," I counter desperately.

Peter's condescending attitude seems to dig into me, to the part where I want to punch him in the smug face. It, of course, doesn't help with his eyebrows constantly lunging upward.

"Staring, are you?" Peter inquires, ignoring my last phrase for a chance to glorify his appearance once again for his new acquaintance.

"You're a pig." I can tell I'll be using that term fairly often.

He just laughs. "Ah, you've caught on already. Well I've been told I'm pretty handsome, on the contrary."

With his messy brown hair and tall form, I sort of agree, but I definitely don't tell him that. His otherworldly accent is cute, too, I admit inside, feeling my cheeks burn like fire; I try to hide it.

"So what have you been doing out here, Ms. Mayfield?"

I cringe at his expanse of knowledge pertaining to my life.

"I do hope dying wasn't on your agenda."

I glance all around to locate the two other Candidates, though it's improbable that they're just waiting around for us to finish our conversation.

Peter pulls a shiny green apple from his messenger bag and lifts it partway to his lips before tossing it to me. "Figured you needed it," he states plainly before prompting his question further.

"Yeah, thanks. Aside from starving, I've held myself together with quotes."

He lifts a skinny eyebrow. Once again, the eyebrows. "Quotes?"

"Yeah, from various people. I keep them stored in a mental library. You do know what a library is, right? You don't seem very book-bound." I cross my arms in satisfaction.

"Everything I say is a quote," Peter muses, a smile playing on his lips, completely ignoring my last comment like before. "You might want to write that down."

"Noted."

A pause.

"Should we find the other people?" Peter finally inquires, his mouth moving spontaneously in a mechanism of boredom.

"There are more of you?" I gasp, staring at him in shock, willing it not to be so.

"Not more of _me_ , Florence, dear," he answers, chuckling, "though wouldn't that be great?"

One Peter Sparrow is enough, especially when they all have a plentiful amount of knifes at the ready. My neck still tickles from our last contact. Hopefully, the other Candidates aren't remotely similar to him, but I suppose we all have to be in order to be chosen.

My head slashes horizontally. "Not likely."

"So snappy you are. I don't suppose we should waste time, love." Peter takes my sweaty hand, dragging me hurriedly — he doesn't seem to care about its moist state, or maybe he just didn't notice it at all, though unlikely. Each crunch of the brown leaves that I snap as I trail behind him bursts fear in my stomach.

_There used to be trees here — distantly._

"Cat's got your tongue?"

My vision snaps back to reality as Peter waves a hand in front of my face. "I'm allergic, sorry," I lie. I don't suppose it's a good idea to provide him with ammunition.  
"Boo-hoo, you're no fun," he mutters, curling his lip upward distastefully. "I quite enjoy cats. Especially black ones. They remind me of outer space. And death."

I desperately want to gush about how much I, too, adore the fuzzy lumps on four legs, but I set myself up so that it'll never be an option. On the flip side, Peter's interest in cats doesn't seem so genuine, or maybe his choppy way of speaking renders him immediately fallacious.

Gazing ahead, I spot a figure, hopelessly wandering around in confusion. They don't look very oriented, like they experienced the same trauma I did when I came, just at a later time. Maybe they're just delaying. "Another Candidate?"

Perhaps this is an unfair accusation, but she doesn't have the appearance of someone I'd consider suitable for these conditions. She's small (she has noticeably nice brown skin, perhaps a descendent of an outlying continent named Africa), and her dark hair looks too neat to be roughing it out in these conditions. But who knows; she could possibly be the next warrior queen of the land.

"Yes, Florence, there are four of them." He rolls his eyes. "Let's get her, shall we?" Peter suggests, running his tongue over his lips in pleasure and ambition.

" _Please_ don't use your knife this time." I put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

"Is that what you think of me?" He puts on a fake pout. "That I'd stab someone?"

I rub my neck where Peter had pressed his weapon against me, still feeling the cold mark on my skin.

_Um, yeah, actually. You seem very likely to stab someone. In fact, I still feel the place where you almost slit my throat. Thanks for that, by the way._

"Hey, brunette lady, yeah, you!" Peter calls out, jogging over to the dazed girl, snapping me back to reality. It seems I have no choice to follow.

To be honest, I had wished our encounter with another human being would be more eventful — like something from a science fiction book; they're always the type that pack so much intrigue within their pages.

"How nice it is to finally meet someone," she says, excitedly shaking my moist hand. "This place is a drag. You've held up well, Peter." Her eyes flicker across her friend.

"Can't say that's exactly true."

Why is it that they know each other, but I was never told anything except for the fact that there are three other Candidates? That's implied, included in the Evaluation pamphlet. The others also know more about me than I do.

"What?" I ask.

"The weather's been having a go at me."

While it's completely accurate that the sun is plotting a revolt against our weak skin (I probably have a sunburn somewhere on me), that's not what I'm digging at.

"Not that. You guys know each other?" My eyes dart back and forth between Peter and the girl, looking for answers. They seem rather indifferent, however, only shrugging and giving me judgmental stares.

"Well yeah. We met in the Community office when we were held captive."

"As _guests_ , Peter. As guests."

"What's the difference? They're treated the same."

The way Peter refers to the Community shocks me. Most of the people I've encountered praise it for all they think it's worth. They dismiss any ill feelings towards their government by warning them, saying they'll report them for treason. But not him. There's something different about this one.

"Peter—"

"You know it's true, Snow! The Director is your bloody mother!"

Snow.

The name brings back vivid memories of my mother — her darting across the frosty lawn, frozen water filling her shoes until she stumbles onto the ground, proceeding to take me inside to warm our toes by the sparkling fire, sipping hot cocoa and snuggling together, just watching the soft snow come down.

"She's the only one I have left," Snow says softly.

Peter's face contorts, grimacing from the hidden pain that he will no doubt keep contained. "Yeah, I've heard."

Peter sure doesn't value the government as much as I do, even though it's minimal, judging by his annoyed behavior when presented with the subject. Even when Snow tries to display a sensitive side, he shoots it down mirthlessly. Already, this Peter Sparrow fellow is turning out to be quite the character, and not the good kind.

"My dad is fighting in the war over in a rebellious outlying country," Snow tells me. "I hope every day that he will come back. But, as you can see, fate has not been very kind to me..." she trails off, leaving us to ponder her troubling matter, while Peter turns his back and continues walking.

For a couple years, there has been a grotesque war being fought in one of the dead cities left from the war almost seven decades ago. The Citizens have no idea what they're fighting for, only that it's essential they win. Men and women are being drafted by the hundreds to be slaughtered, with no one to dote on their survival, especially not the Community.

Snow and I exchanged worried looks, dashing after him. I place a hand on his shoulder as I slow, but he flicks it off with annoyance.

"Shall we explore? You know, find shelter before the evil, dark creatures come out to play and—"

"Peter, that's enough," Snow warns.

She strikes me as a mother figure, keeping Peter's foul mouth closed with a stern admonition. I can't decide whether it's because of her nature, or the fact that her actual mother is the ruler of the country, thus not paying careful attention to her daughter, but it's nevertheless conducive.

He just smirks and replies, "Then stop chatting, and maybe we can get somewhere."

"To be fair, we were all talking, including you," I offer, which earns a winning grin from Snow, but a scowl from Peter that soon molds into a smile.

In the future, I'm prepared to expect Peter tossing the blame onto other people, but the truth is I can take it. They're just words, and I can deal with bullies such as him.

"Good thing I'm not fair then, yes?" Peter's speech makes no sense — so contradictory to itself, yet no one questions it.

~~~~~

My eyes sag with tiredness as we pull along to find shelter, but Peter marches ahead, not a wrinkle in his visage. It would seem he's my superior in strength.

After walking for what seems like an eternity, a torn down city towers above us and ends the prolonged landscape we're used to.

Very few plants are scattered around, resting on the sand like a grave of someone that everyone hated, and besides that, it's almost like oblivion.

"How's this?" Peter suggests, striding over to the second skyscraper we encounter.

"Looks great!" Snow replies enthusiastically, prancing over and skimming her eyes over the messy place.

Optimism is so strange to me — realism is much more useful. Snow sees a hopeful building, while I see it how it is: an agrestic, dirty rubbish heap.

In school, the kids would argue that optimism is the most important quality of a friend, but I could tell very few of us disagreed with that statement; it's not always easy to find happiness where it does not exist.

"I'll scope it out," Snow affirms.

Rubble pours out in heaps, creating a puddle by the doorway, with planks falling loose from the sides of the walls. The furniture has been destroyed, clumps of fluff falling out from every open patch, and splintered wood threatens to stab me.

"What do you see in this place? Why couldn't you have picked the next building with better living conditions?" I complain, plopping down by the door nonetheless.

"I thought you were completely knackered," Peter snaps, raising an accusing eyebrow that makes me shift in discomfort. "The next building is probably too far for your weak knees."

Honestly, I have no idea if my clumsiness resulted in my unstable knees, or if my unstable knees resulted in my clumsiness, but either way, I'm a mess.

"How did you—" My hands fly to my knee. "Never mind."

A loud bang rings out, bouncing off the walls. Snow looks up from the woodpile with a sheepish grin. A piece falls to the ground, hitting her hand as her grand finale of destructiveness.

"I cleared out spots for you guys on the couch. I'll take the floor."

I glance at the faded, chartreuse specimen disdainfully.

"Besides, you guys can snuggle." Snow gives a suggestive wink, and Peter chokes on the air, croaking out, "I am _not_ doing _that_ with _her_."

"Will you sleep on the floor now?"

"No, the couch is mine."

By now, I've settled on the furniture, carefully avoiding getting my fingers hitched in the holes.

"Get off," Peter demands.

With a sad smile, I slowly slide off onto the floor, like a falling mass of gelatin. "I'll clear a spot for myself. Don't worry, Princess."

"Yeah." Peter brushes his clothes and tilts his chin up. "That's right."

After finding blankets in the lobby and a huge debate on sleeping arrangements, though I doubt I'll be able to get any shut-eye, Peter attempts to light a fire with the few leaves we've come across and a stray rock, bright with lichens.

"It's not bloody working!" he shrieks, pounding the ground with his fist that I notice is filled with cuts.

"Do you need—" I stop when I hear the lone bush in this barren place rattle; we had all hoped it would give fruit somehow, but it only sits there and mocks us with its perfect — but fruitless — leaves.

Getting up slowly, Peter makes his way to the leafy clump, narrowing his eyes at the vast possibilities of what could lurk behind it. A head pops out, smiling meekly, and is soon joined by the rest of the body, clad in white shorts, and a black jacket cut just low enough to reveal a t-shirt underneath, along with a pair of glasses adorning his nose and a stray scarf for accessory.

"Blimey! What are you doing?"

"This is my bush," the person states plainly.

"It's the only bush, so share."

The boy pauses, eyeing us up and down, evaluating our priorities in whatever way he can. "So you're hoping for fruit, huh?"

"Maybe," Peter replies. "How'd you know?"

"I've met people like you." The kid steps farther out from his hiding spot to join the three of us, preparing to engage in a conversation — though, the whole thing would most likely just include Peter shouting and everyone else spending their time processing his baffling words.

"Like us?" Snow pipes up, regaining her composure from the surprise. I had seen her flinch when the new visitor appeared; it apparently doesn't take much to frighten Snow.

"Yeah, ambitious people, with their ambition set in the wrong area. But that's okay; I don't expect you to know things about plants."

I raise my eyebrow at him, just like I had seen Peter do countless times in an hour, but he doesn't notice. I happen to have been the best in my division when it came to botany. I parted from that to pursue other aspirations, but the facts remained in the back of my head, as they should.

Peter scans him from head to toe, upset that he'd been outdone, and he scours the sight to arm himself with ammunition. "Who are you anyway?"

"I am called Calum Zabel." The way he says his name, his diction, suggests he's a person of science and factual knowledge, yet he likely indulges in fiction every once in a while — I find that a healthy balance.

"Ah, right. You never presented yourself much at the Banquet. You were off reading." Peter scoffs.

"Yes, that was my Encyclopedia of—"

"Great. You're sleeping on the floor."

Calum cocks his neck to the side quizzically. "But I already have a place—"

"Do you want to be left behind?"

For someone who Peter definitely regards as annoying, he sure is going to long measures to make sure Calum stays with us. He could just throw his hands in the air and declare, "Every man for himself!" but he seems insistent that we compile the most densely populated group we can find if we're going to survive this.

Calum shakes his head and sits down in the sand.

Suddenly, the tables have turned. Calum came into this fight with determination, but ended by resting in the sand, defeated and speechless.

"You kind of remind me of Florence," Peter says after a long silence of playing with our shoelaces and wishing the fire would start. "Always reading, using big words, and oh, being a complete div."

"Give me a moment to assess how paradoxical that is, will you?" Calum asks.

_How does Calum know what div means? No one ever understands Peter, especially his words. Even his word placement is all right._

"How do you know so much about me?" I interject as Calum tries to explain how 'div' doesn't match up with his prior explanation of how he was always reading and using 'big words'.

Something about this doesn't add up. How does he know every bit of my life, when I didn't even acknowledge his existence until he showed up and threatened my life? And what is the Banquet? I assume it's when all the Candidates except me met, conversed, and, well, stalked my life, poring over the private information.

Wondering about if the Candidates know this much about each other, my vision averts to Calum, who is heavily concentrating on starting the fire. He seems to be on the right track, though he occasionally shakes his head in frustration. I see that he noticed me staring, and his cheeks flush slightly, he but continues his endeavor nonetheless.

Eventually, the fire bursts to life in a big, orange explosion. Calum flies back in shock, hands skidding through the sand. Smoke wafts upwards, creating flowing forms in the darkening sky.

Snow covers her mouth with a dirtied hand, stained from dust from her work with the rubble. "I've always done this around smoke, or people with cigars and cigarettes." After a hesitant smile, she continues, "I don't do it out of disrespect! No, my father taught me to always be kind. He'd say, 'Snow Leclerc, there will always be wretched people in this world, but you must show them love. It can shape the destiny of mankind."

With confusion permeating his words, Peter quips, "We really didn't need a blast from the past, Snow."

_Ah, yes, the charming, young Peter Sparrow, always present to grace the world with his kind and encouraging words._

"Ugh, shut up, Peter," I bark, and for some reason, Peter is taken aback.

"I think that's very lovely," Calum chimes in innocently. "I mean, of course I prefer cold, hard facts, but..."

Snow just giggles, making Calum blush as he looks down at his lap. "Thank you, Calum," she says sweetly, which triggers an urge to pair them together and squeal about it with Peter — he's probably not a squealer though.

Calum catches that special gleam in my eye, and he shakes his head frantically, earning a playful smirk.

Peter spies the strange connection and says, "Wow, I am literally the most normal person here." He gets up from the log, blinking a couple times in surprise. "Wow."

"I really doubt that," I retort in a weak attempt to counter him, reaching my hands towards the fire to gain back the warmth snuffed out by my icy heart.

"Your accent, it's..." Calum trails off. "Where are you from?"

My stomach blooms with excitement. I've never heard anyone speak the same way Peter does — the accents from the Community are thick with boring inflection (or lack thereof) and deep tones. The sudden desire to know where he's from overwhelms me.

"Under a bridge," Peter deadpans.

_I can imagine._

"Really?" Calum pries, raising an eyebrow to dig out the information that he craves; I wish I could do that with Peter. Things would be so much more elementary between us. I wouldn't have to grapple with the wall of sarcasm to get to what I need.

"Cambridge," Peter whispers hoarsely.

"What is Cambridge?" I inquire unknowingly. "Is that a dead city from the war?"

68 years ago, there was a huge world war, explosions causing mass destruction. Many lives were lost, all because an outside country desired great power; they were ruthless about it, or at least that's what school taught us. Citizens were in constant fear of being bombed, of losing their loved ones. With the bombs came absolute terror. The war wreaked havoc on everything and everyone, but then came the Community.

They rehabilitated the buildings, gave treatment for the unhealthy and injured, whether it be physical, emotional, or mental, and they made the environment beautiful, lush, green grass bordering the sidewalks and extravagantly luscious trees were planted everywhere. Overall, our quality of life drastically changed.

However, with it came great sacrifices. Most of the previous technology was lost, mostly the fairly new contraptions from the last half century. The majority of the bombs struck the government's labs, not the museums, thus losing precious information. Since then, not many inventions have been conceived.

"Don't be ridiculous, Florence. It's in England."

"England?"

I've only heard of the place once, overheard in a conversation between my parents when I was six, when I had no idea about the world around me, or absence of a world around me.

"Never mind," Peter says. "Calum understands, and he was the one to ask me."

I glance over at Calum, pleading with eye signals. He seems like the kind of person to assist people in need, though phrase it to be something that they couldn't fathom.

"England is a place in Europe. We've been blocked from all other countries, so I guess you wouldn't know."

"Impossible," I reply, furrowing my brows. "The Community is the _only_ place. That's what we've been taught. I realize there are still some survivors, but no one is directly from there anymore...right?" At least not that I know of, besides Kalila or Pan.

It's one of the most fundamental ideals that we were educated since as early as I can remember, pounded into our minds like hammers and nails — repetitious, though nevertheless imperative.

Calum bursts out laughing, and I instantly feel ashamed. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, so I throw my eyes to the ground in dismay.

"What we were _taught_?" He continues to chuckle hysterically. "Those are lies, Florence — meant to keep you innocent, to stop a rebellion against our _precious_ society. Haven't you ever seen a globe?"

"Well, yes, but it only had Community grounds..."

"The Community isn't _spherical_ ," Calum cachinnates.

"Well now she knows," Snow concludes. "Let's focus on the important things, instead of bantering like old ladies stuck to their rocking chairs."

I sigh in relief, thankful for Snow's sudden interjection.

Calum and Peter's eyes switch from me to Snow, taking a massive weight with them.

"Taking charge, eh? Impressive," Peter comments.

I've only just met this fellow, but Peter Sparrow is the rudest person I have ever had the misfortune of finding. Snow seems like the sweetest girl ever, yet he insists on tormenting her with coarse insults.

"Why don't you just shut up and get some sleep?" I suggest harshly. After a long day of walking, sleep is my main priority — besides, it provides an area where I no longer am required to listen to Peter's annoying buzzing noises that he calls words.

"Fine."

~~~~~

"I think this is the happiest moment of my life," I muse, Calum leaning on my back as I lean on his.

I've taken up the duty of introducing him to everyone, teaching him about the Dome, and even just getting to know him, but he's not unearthing much so far.

"How so?"

That's the thing about Calum: you feel like you can tell him anything and everything, because, even if he doesn't care, it looks as if he's fully invested.

"I've been working on that for two years. I better be good at it," he had told me when I cornered him about his abilities. "It's, uh, well... It's a thing I have that makes it hard for me to interact."

I smile, watching as the sunlight swims through his hair, the color of the void that he likes to cogitate in his spare time, in between sentences. Manifesting the words inside my mind before I speak them aloud, they float around in their last seconds of being intangible. "Well, ever since my parents died, I felt kind of...bored with my life, you know?"

Calum nods, though I can't tell if he actually relates, or if he's just playing the bilateral person I've discovered him to be.

"Now, I think I actually have friends that will care about me — excluding Peter, of course."

Calum laughs, pushing his glasses farther up his nose with one finger. Biting his lip, I can tell he's thinking about something else that doesn't pertain directly to our conversation, but I decide not to inquire about it — he doesn't ask questions, so I should respect his privacy as well.

"I don't suppose I appreciate that Peter fellow much, either," Calum admits shyly.

Even when Peter Sparrow, an ostentatious teenager, ridicules Snow, Calum, and me, Calum still has the courtesy to address him as a fellow and keep his true opinion hidden in case he damages Peter's precious ego.

"And what about you, Calum? What's your best moment?"

I suppose one exception to the rules won't hurt; asking questions is intriguing, primarily about Calum. Mrs. Curtis thinks it's good to think about happy memories to keep ourselves grateful — that's her exception; she doesn't like to reflect on the past usually ("It's worthless. What you need is to be hopeful for your future!")

Calum leaves me in the silence of his decisions, quietly pondering the memory he wishes to select. "The thing about saying something is the happiest moment of your life is that you're in constant fear of it changing, like you're somehow betraying your previous jovial memories. We never know when our life is going to end, when we can correctly evaluate when we truly felt the best. I'm just not ready to live in the denial that this experience wasn't truly spectacular if my opinion changes.

"It's like with choosing any favorite of yours. I tell people my favorite book is _The Willow on Oak Lane_ , but I recently read a thrilling novel entitled _The Disappearance of Agoraphobia_ , but I'm not sure if it's my favorite quite yet. I feel that I'm being held back by the concept that I've had so much history with _The Willow on Oak Lane_ , so I'm torn. Maybe it's just me."

"Yeah, I suppose I understand," I chime in after he's finished.

The things Calum assesses are dazzling, breathtaking. He captures something so ordinary, then his mind morphs it to turn out as something brilliant, something no one's ever seen before, something no one can compare to.

"Obviously, you must've had a happier moment before you came here, because it's fairly recent, but you don't seem culpable about it."

"Why should I be ashamed for my ecstatic memories?"

The audacity of Calum's words is appalling, but I don't believe he intends it to sound that way. He can be oblivious to people's facial expressions as well.

"That's not what I meant," Calum amends hectically.

I've put him in an awkward position that I didn't endeavor to, but I presume I can't fix it just yet, but maybe...

"It's okay," I try. "You're completely fine." I smile in reassurance once he gives me a terrified look, like he feels that his actions haven't been fully resolved.

Calum worries so much about simple things. It must be tragically difficult to get through life inside his mind, in his perspective.

"I'm really sorry, Florence."

"It's _okay_. Really, you're good." I chuckle nonchalantly, though I know I shouldn't — whatever this is, it's not a joke, but I can't help myself not find his fright amusing.

That must be what it's like to have destructive anxiety — everything is horrifying, and no matter how hard you try to calm yourself down, your heart palpitations are at their peak.

"Sorry, I just make a big deal out of everything," Calum atones nervously.

"You don't need to apologize. I can understand how it is, how _you_ are."

Fear burns in his eyes, something I hadn't meant to happen.

_Did I say something? What was it?_

"I sure hope you don't understand," Calum says plainly.

Calum never lets me inside himself, only locks me out with a million padlocks and a tiny peephole to sibilate small clues, only fragments. I don't understand because he won't let me. Calum doesn't recognize that I can help him, but assistance is only possible if he lends me a bit of his life.

One day, all of this will be too much. His spine will break from the weight, and there will be no turning back. But that's not my fault; it's his.

Calum needs someone to show him that he can make it through, that, even though he can't see it, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, that it's not just there to render him lost. It's not there to conceal him in darkness and sing him a lullaby complimented by the ritualistic dripping noises of water leaking through the cracks. It's there to help. _I'm_ there to help.

He stands, causing me to lean back from the lack of support. Stealing one glance at me, he walks back to our building to contemplate everything, alleviate his stress.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I suppose I have to mean it.

~~~~~

My dreams swirl around in my head after I finally fall asleep, and I'm sure I can be seen sweating or twitching if anyone's awake. Hopefully, Peter won't pester me about it in the morning, taunting me throughout the long day he has planned.

~~~~~

"I know you're upset about this."

"Why are we doing this to them? What good does it do?"

"We're helping them."

"We're taking their lives away!"

"One of them could be the best leader we've ever known."

"But what will be left of them?"

"I survived. Now she'll have to."

_Florence, Florence._

The name echoes in my mind as I transport from image to image, bloody and dark, twisted by my brain.

_Florence, Florence._

Stop it!

_Florence._

_~~~~~_

I snap awake, Peter looming above me. His messy hair hangs above, blowing about in the light breeze.

"Florence. You were thrashing."

My timid eyes meet his nonchalant ones, my gaze shaking like my body. "Bad dream," I whisper, hands struggling to push myself off the floor, scattered with broken glass and dust.

"Care to spill the juicy details?" Peter rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward as his pupils dilate, though I can't recognize whether he's adept at faking human expression, or if he has genuine interest.

"Sorry, I don't think your weak brain would be able to handle it."

Peter scowls, remembering his similar comment yesterday. "Doesn't matter anyway."

"Keep telling yourself that," I insist. "It's cute to see you in denial."

"Florence, you are quite the—" Peter is interrupted by a loud crash sounding from the edge of the room.

Calum looks up, eyes wide, the suspect of the crime, with rubble pressed to the other side of the wall from his plans.

"Thank goodness you're here, Calum; this evil troll was getting on my nerves."

"Why are you such a jerk all the time, Peter? For once, can you be nice?" Calum begs, sliding his glasses onto his pale face.

Peter narrows his eyes in confusion. "What does _nice_ mean?"

Groaning in distaste, I storm out of the wrecked lobby, and I'm soon greeted by a blast of gusty wind, blowing my hair back from my face. A figure catches my eye beside the building, and I stroll over to investigate.

It seems to be a doll-like figure, but it lacks a full head of hair, and it possesses the body shape of that of a squash. He wears a blue, striped covering on a tan form, with square eyes that rest on white, diamond shaped backgrounds. The wind has beaten it up, and some stuffing falls out in clumps, though the whiteness has been dulled by the infiltrating sand. It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen.

"Can we name it Giuseppe?" Peter suggests, now creeping up on me from behind. His warm breath lurks on the back of my neck, alerting my hair to stand straight.

"We are _not_ keeping this thing."

"I don't think a work of art such as this should be wasted. We must bring it back to the Community for a museum display." Peter nods in agreement with himself. "We'd be helping everyone."

"To be honest, it's terrifying," I counter, collecting the doll and turning it around in my hands to examine it further.

It looks like something out of nightmares. Giuseppe, scaring children since...whenever it was made. What kind of deranged child would create such a monster? Was it deliberate, or were they terrible at art like most other small humans?

"You gave me more incentive to hoard it."

"But, I—"

"I thank you for your cooperation." Peter snatches the doll from me, cradling it in his arms. "Oh, my baby, let's go scare people."

Dread twists and turns in my stomach as I fear what he's about to do next. Will he slap people with it? Will he bury it under the couch? Will he stuff it up his shirt and retreat to a cave for nine months? Only time can tell.

With that, Peter saunters away to show Giuseppe to Snow and Calum, whatever his intentions may be. I watch him leave, a deranged expression plastered to my face.

A distorted cry fills the empty space, and I find myself chuckling at Peter's antics.

"His name is Giuseppe, guys!" is the loudest thing I've ever heard from a human being — should I expect more from Mr. Sparrow?

"Uh, yes, Peter, that's a very beautiful name." Snow, always so kind.

"I know," he replies, getting in Snow's face. "Come to the baby shower."

_Isn't the baby shower for mothers celebrating their new children? Is Peter a mother now? I feel like I missed something._

"I have plans," she gulps, eyes expanding from the close contact. No one has plans here, though, only to rot away.

"Clear your calendar. I know you want to come." Peter winks and strays over to Calum for a moment, but he mostly alternates between the two other Candidates. "Giuseppe, our dark king!"

By now, I've made my way to the doorframe, leaning against it as I watch Peter's ideas unfold. In truth, his liveliness is refreshing, a reprieve from the sand that threatens to swallow us whole each time we walk outside.

"Is he okay?" Calum whispers to me, creeping away from Peter, who is now performing incredibly active dance moves with his newest friend.

"Not entirely sure."

"Snow, you shall be a servant to Giuseppe!" I hear from the back of the room, accompanied by a peculiar shrieking noise.

"It really didn't take him that long to let go of all of his rationality. In fact, about _huit heur trente-et-un_ ," Calum notes. It sounds like gibberish when it comes out of his mouth, so I automatically assume it's foreign, based off of the things Calum seems to be interested in.

"What language is that?" I decide to ask, however.

"French." After a blank expression from me, he adds, "From France. It's a European country. I took the liberty of exploring the culture of many different places."

"And you were allowed to do that?"

"Who said I originate from the Community?"

I've never seen anyone, besides Pan and Kalila, who's not from here... They're extremely rare to find, considering the war destroyed most places, and if not, the Community blocked them from us.

"Do you miss your home? Both of them?"

"Eh, not really," Calum replies. "It gets on my nerves that I'm forced to count the sidewalk tiles in public in the Community since I moved, but here, I don't have to do that, because we are swimming in a river of sand, though, truth be told, I hate the feeling of those over glorified specks of rocks."

Concern spreads across my face like the disgusting mayonnaise that Pan insists is supposed to be slathered across sandwiches. "What?"

After a shy smile, he clarifies, "Yeah, I hate sand."

"No, not that. The tile counting."

"It's, um," Calum starts, looking down at his fidgeting hands, "it's what you might call a nervous twitch, derived from — never mind."

"What were you going to say?"

Calum doesn't answer straight away, rather looking me straight in the eyes, fear dancing across his face.

 _I'm sorry_ , I try to say, but nothing comes out. I know I've offended him, though I don't clearly know how; I just do, which is more than most people can promise. I merely conclude that I should never ask him about his home again, rather wait for it to come up in conversation.

His fingers continue to move frantically around, perhaps out of habit. When they brush against each other, Calum flinches in surprise, even if it was evident that they would do such things.

Through my undeveloped skills (or lack thereof), I deduce weakly that he has some sort of imperfection in his body, mental most likely, because of the tile counting. I shouldn't be so judgmental, though. I won't assume anything quite yet.

_Then why is he so adept at everything he encounters? He seems fine, but...that's how neglect is triggered. Stop thinking like that._

Calum proceeds to squish his fingers down by forcefully slipping them in his torn pockets. "I know what you're thinking."

My vision averts to Peter, where he's marching about in circles around Snow, who's giggling uncontrollably, yet not willing him to stop.

"I know you think I'm abnormal. The simple truth is that I'm not particularly equipped to handle social situations."

"You seem just fine."

"This was just lucky. First impressions are my forte. I'm set on the fact that I'll die in here, so I might as well become comfortable with you all anyway."

My stomach becomes uneasy, so I change the subject quickly. "So how have you been handling your life?" I say, attempting to create a safe environment through what Mrs. Curtis would call "a conversation starter".

He seems to be taken aback by my presumptuous comment, and I instantly regret uttering it, sucking in my breath. "Well I didn't think I was _that_ reliant on people," he scoffs. "As you've no doubt discovered, people aren't all what they seem, and you can depend on yourself as much as possible; you're better off that way. Therefore, if there's any issue with me acting the way I do, I suggest you purge the thought."

_Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap. I screwed up. I screwed up so bad._

Quickly, I try to think of something to respond with, tapping my foot twice before an idea pops into my head, though not much of a quip, but I'll have to use whatever I can. "That took a lot of bravery. I guess you could say you're the next king of the jungle."

"Florence Victoria Mayfield—"

 


	5. Exploration

_Loss is handled in a specific way in the_

_Community. Yes, while a funeral is offered,_  
further lamentation is discouraged.  
It is the duty of the Citizens to be as  
productive as is humanly possible.

 _-_ Basics of the Community, _page 221_

_~~~~~_

"All right, children, it's time to wake up from your precious dreams of fairies and the mythical realm where I reign. How unfortunate that it's not reality," Peter wails at the top of his lungs, slamming his foot against the wall.

"Peter, what are you doing?" I ask, groggy from sleep. I push the matted hair out of my face, struggling to cover my yawn with my hand.

"It's 7:37 in the morning. You'd be on your way to school by now, and that was only a couple days ago."

"Why are you so precise?" I scowl. I don't want to think about school anymore. My time at Incipiens Province High School is not something I wish to remember so vividly, primarily because Pan attended the same place, and that's both a good thing and a bad thing.

Every time I'm around Peter, he always spectates on the time every so often, making a note as he goes along. I've gotten used to it, but I can't say I enjoy it. Every step (or so it seems), Peter calls out another number, gradually increasing as seconds tick away.

"Why do you _care_?" he snaps back at me.

"I'm trying to find your weakness." I smirk. This is partly true, considering the fact that Peter Sparrow is a massive jerk. If I have opportunity to take him down, I'll accept it graciously. I just hope he thanks me for punching him in the face; it'll do him a lot of good.

"My weakness is Giuseppe. If you lay a hand on him, I'll—"

"There is a _bug_ on me!" Snow shrieks.

_What did Peter do this time? He could do some dangerous things, but why put a bug on Snow? Where did he even get it?_

"Pretty, pretty buggy child." Peter slowly makes his way over to Snow, where, true enough, a cockroach has found itself on her black, knee-length shorts.

"Peter, get it off me!" Snow demands, hands set on her hips as she cautiously studies the bug on her leg to make sure it doesn't relocate to somewhere on her face.

"Let's flick it on Calum," Peter instead suggests, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

I peer over at Calum, who's still sleeping soundly, and I blurt, "I doubt you should do that. He'll kill you. I happen to know that he has an extreme fear of surviving creatures."

"Surviving creatures? What in the world does that mean?" Peter replies, carefully lifting the cockroach off of Snow and placing it on Calum's rising and falling chest.

"I believe Calum would describe it as 'creatures that can survive in extreme forces of nature, such as heat, cold, and natural disasters'."

"And you?"

"I would say they're creatures that can lose their heads and still be A-OK."

Out of nowhere, Calum lurches upward, smacking Peter in the face, which causes him to fly back into Snow, who pushes him off her with disdain; a chain of events. "Peter Sparrow, I will find the nearest salmon and slap you with it!"

"Told you," I restate.

"We need to bury him!" Peter shrieks, taking the bug's limp body with his fingers and transferring it into his hand.

"What happened to that plan that required us waking up?" I groan. My eyes are sagging from tiredness, most likely ringed with deep purple, though, as I always say, sleep is for the weak, even when that phrase is inconvenient for me.

"Do you not understand the importance of this situation?"

Calum looks around at Snow and me in confusion, hoping for an answer from us as we wait for Peter to continue.

"Calum's a _murderer_."

From where I am standing, I can see Calum wince; he obviously detests that word — he might have acrimonious ties with it, things I couldn't ever dream of.

"Please don't use that word lightly," Snow says softly. "It's not a kind thing to call people."

"It's not a kind thing to murder cockroaches, yet here we are, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm not kind, now am I?" Peter moves his eyes across the room, sweeping over our silent faces, still in shock from his latest accusation, but we all know that he has never been generous — though each time he lets out another ounce of acerbity, we're repulsed just the same. None of us are accustomed to such bitter nature from anyone, especially someone this young.

_Why did the Community want this kid?_

"I just realized there's a perfect burial site next to this building thing." Peter brushes past me and proceeds to dig his hands through the sand outside until he makes a pit a few inches deep by a few inches wide. "We didn't even name him, guys! Do you think this bug would want to die without a name? No, I didn't think so. I, personally, vote for Mr. Roachling."

"That's the most abnormal name I've ever heard," I answer, sliding out of the building and leaning on the doorframe with my arms crossed on my chest.

"Then you obviously haven't heard your own — okay, let's go. Calum, bringeth forth ye gallant bug!"

"I vote for Ye Gallant Bug," I amend, just trying to annoy Peter, but his face seems to light up with my suggestion.

"You have never been more right, my love."

I shudder. For someone who could not care less about other people, Peter decided to use "my love" so casually.

Calum soon appears next to Peter with Ye Gallant Bug cupped in his hands, attempting to not make much contact with him. He swiftly drops the bug into the hole and kicks a mound of sand over top.

"Oh my God, Calum, that's so rude. You didn't even let me say a few words in honor of him." Peter gives him an evil glare, flaring his nostrils drastically, and turns on his heel to begin his eulogy. "Ye Gallant Bug, I haven't known you for very long, but I do, however, know that you are a brave man. Man-child. Man bug. You survived being transported from the third worst person in the world to the second. I commend you for your valor and your unwillingness to give up."

 _Glad to know his priorities are straight. And...I assume I'm the first worst person in the world, correct? Or is it himself?_ I frown.

"What the—"

"I love you," Peter whispers, cutting Snow off.

"I know you do," I retort, flipping my hair. "I'm your queen."

Peter moves closer to me, until his lips are only inches away from mine, and my eyes widen in surprise — and slight amounts of fear. "I was addressing my small child, Ye Gallant Bug," Peter whispers. "But if you really wanted that — my love, I mean — you wouldn't flinch."

"You vile—"

"Pig?" Peter finishes. "I know. I hear it _constantly_ from you." He rolls his eyes in a sarcastic way, twirling around and kicking more dust on Ye Gallant Bug's Grave, beginning to do a strange jig dance.

"Yep."

~~~~~

Peter decided we should explore, as usual. I get the notion that he cannot sustain boredom very well. I would say he's a tactile learner by the looks of it, except for the fact that he thinks they're inferior, for whatever reason.

_Why am I trying to figure him out?_

Sand fills Snow's shoes and she hops around, shaking her foot, while Calum swarms around her to assist and Peter cackles a few feet away from the commotion.

"Get it out!" Snow shrieks. "Sandy feet are not desirable!"

"And whom would it be that you're trying to desire?" Peter asks, sneaking up from behind.

_Not this again._

"A chicken nugget."

For a surprisingly kind girl, Snow really knows how to put up with his rude behavior. Though... I wouldn't insult someone by calling them a chicken nugget. That would doubtlessly be the highest title of honor if given by myself — I rather enjoy them — but I decide to play along with Snow's unfolding plan.

"Florence, dearest, Snow wants to impress you!" Peter calls, waving me over.

And Peter knows how to counter. However, he usually directs it at me, seemingly hating my guts or whatever's up with him.

"Need help, chicken nugget?" I reply, kicking his shins.

Calum chuckles softly as to not attract Peter, while the newly found victim dances around, clutching his leg, causing him to laugh harder.

"Guys, I still need help," Snow pipes up.

"Balance on one foot," Calum instructs, striding over to her authoritatively.

She does so. He takes off her shoe and dumps out the sand, slipping it back on her foot and does the same for the next, until Snow is content. I see her toes wiggle around in her footwear and she grins.

That was pretty pointless.

But how is he so good at solving problems? I would probably leave tons of sand inside and Snow would definitely ask me to do it again, even though she's massively polite.

And Snow, how did she stand on one foot like that? The clumsy fool I am, I would've fallen onto Calum in an instant and he would never trust me around shoes, or around anything as long as he's still living, though I suppose he knows I will be the one to cause his death.

"Thank you, Calum," Snow says, making Calum blush.

"Shall we get on then?" Peter groans. "As the French would say, Allons-y! Florence, France is—"

"I figured," I snap.

~~~~~

We walk almost three kilometers (Peter counted, obviously still using the abandoned metric system) under the blazing sun before Peter smacks his head on an invisible object and falls in a heap on the ground.

"I've been waiting forever for that to happen," Calum remarks, folding his arms across his chest.

"Did you bloody do this?" Peter scrambles to his feet, reading to strike, but Snow holds him back.

"I did not."

I step forward to examine the force that knocked Peter down. It shimmers at my touch, like purple electricity coursing through the texture that becomes more visible with each contact point

"Climate control," Calum notes, squinting. "Average temperature in the Epistylium Province — I assume that's our location — is 72 degrees Fahrenheit at the beginning of March. The temperature in here, however, is around 90 degrees Fahrenheit."

"How—" I stutter.

"Estimation."

Calum is quite the genius — he's learned much more than I have, though I hate to admit it so willingly. He could solve any problem in half the time that I could. We must battle to see who becomes the alpha.

"We're in a dome, by the looks of it. Curved walls, angled, faint shadows from the edges," Snow deduces.

I also don't know how she could've concluded that, but I'm the one who couldn't figure anything out about someone if my life depended on it.

"Well you're not a _complete_ div, though you are a minger." Peter gives a slow clap. "Marvelous."

_You're slipping, Peter Sparrow._

Peter's elusive English terms are starting to get on my nerves, because no one — except Calum — knows anything alluding to their meaning.

Calum's hand clenches by his side, apparently the only one who understands what div and minger mean — or maybe he's been faking it this whole time, but the only experience he has is that he assumes Peter's always insulting him, which is mostly true.

In an instant, he falls to the scorching sand suddenly, writhing around uncontrollably as the grains fill his clothes and his hair.

"Calum!" I yell, rushing to his outstretched body.

Snow follows suit, almost as quickly as I do. "Accelerated heartbeat," she comments, with a hand on his chest.

I push Calum's shoulders down to help Snow with her treatment, though each second, it becomes more and more difficult to do so.

Peter paces behind us, pulling at his hair and squeezing his eyes shut, muttering strange words, and he begins twitching as I struggle to contain Calum's astounding strength. Honestly, I hadn't expected him to be so muscled until now, though perhaps it was a fluke, a power surge.

"Are you okay?" Snow shouts, dashing to him, seizing his arm to keep him controlled, wholly depending on me to keep Calum under lockdown.

With a pressing force on Calum, I feel his forehead to find it scalding with heat. Beads of sweat form under my hand as he persists to thrash wildly. I spot Snow blocking Peter from Calum with her frail body, even as he claws at her skin. She's a lot braver than we perceive her to me.

"Peter, I'm going to help Calum now. _Please_ don't do anything." Snow releases him and he stands deathly still, breathing slowly — almost too slowly to be natural, although, to be quite honest, I take long breaths as well.

Immediately when Snow returns to Calum and gazes at her scratched face, he calms down almost completely, reaching out for her hand.

Snow takes his in hers and presses tightly in reassurance.

"Snow," Calum whispers hoarsely, struggling to make out her form, though, somehow, he is able to distinguish between her and a tree, though it's probably because of the gentle nature Snow possesses (or because there aren't any trees here, and there haven't been for a long, long time).

"It's okay. I'm here — you're fine." Tears well up in her eyes and she pulls him into a warm embrace.

_They must end up together. I will chase them to the ends of the earth to make sure that they purchase a small cottage in the middle of the woods and bake pies all day, with nothing to be the matter in their lives, except they will get overly suspicious of the animated, fervid woman standing outside their window and taking pictures of them with a camera covered in peeling, flashy dog stickers bought from the supermarket._

I hear the sand being sifted between Peter's feet as he strides over, having regained his sanity. "I am well, thank you for asking," he spits, kicking a pile of sand into the blowing wind, scattering it across the ground like seeds on a windy June day.

"I was just going to ask," Snow utters, holding her hands on her hips as she looks up from Calum.

"I find it quite peculiar that you still care for me when I act the way I do. I'm trying to get rid of you." Peter frowns wholeheartedly.

"That's why I stay — to annoy you."

"Snow Leclerc, you little—"

"Let's set up camp here!" I announce, deliberately cutting Peter off.

_I will not let you mess with Snow, even though she takes chicken nugget as an offensive phrase._

"Are your weak knees not steady enough again?" Peter fires.

I glare at him as I lay my jacket out on the sand.

I see Calum's distaste for the idea written in his bright blue eyes (his favorite color, apparently), but he's too submissive to speak out. Even though I shouldn't take advantage of it, I do, and ignore his silent plea for someone to recognize his struggle.

He never talks out of place, or rather never talks much at all. Calum reminds me of a slightly younger version of myself, before I met Peter Sparrow and suddenly my life was on the line from the constant torture of his presence. Even school wasn't this daunting.

Peter slides off his jacket disdainfully. He must be the kind of person who wears their coat all day, along with a scarf in the extreme heat of late May and gets teased about it at school. But that's not the kind of thing I need to be thinking about.

I need to focus on how I'm going to survive.

~~~~~

To my surprise, I doze off rather quickly, though I attribute this success to Peter, making us walk all day. My legs feel the sorest as they've ever been, pushing my "mundane capacity", as Peter prefers to call it.

I have no dreams, which I find upsetting when I wake in the morning, pushing the evil, yellow crust balls out of my eyes and stretching simultaneously.

No one seems to be awake, which is the way I like it — silent, peaceful. There's too much noise filling this already polluted world. In addition, my ears tend to be hypersensitive to any kind of high-pitched or loud tones.

Next to me, Calum stirs and immediately sits right up, casting a worried glance my way. "That clown was so mean," he whispers.

"Clowns are terrible," I reply, nodding my head slowly as I recall my fifth birthday party, probably one of my worst instances with celebrations — or anywhere, for that matter.

I was leaning excitedly over my vanilla cake with chocolate icing, getting ready to blow out the candles and wish for a pony, which seems to be the only thing a young girl's heart desires at that age (mine, at least, wasn't asking for a unicorn or a Pegasus, so I win, if we're acting like twelve year-olds), but I was greeted by the clown my parents hired (for whatever deranged reason), his hands wrapped around my shoulders.

I was especially squeamish in my younger years, though I still remain to be, so I was acutely infuriated by the unsolicited contact with my skin — and his outrageous gloves, I might add.

"Happy birthday," he whispered into my ear, much to my surprise.

I whirled around, a hideous expression crushing my previous simpering visage, shoving his face into the dessert, candles still ablaze. It felt kind of good, and I, especially, felt like the most skilled ninja in the history of the world.

He shrieked, dashing madly around the room, with a wax structure still stuck to his cheek until my mom threw the remnants of her water bottle in his face.

My friends had all ogled him, eyes sparkling with astonishment, their gaze fixated on how the liquid smeared his face paint, making him look more terrifying than anything I had ever seen.

His eyes were dripping with red, like he had contracted Ebola in the short time between the cake and the water. The dessert still clung to him messily, occasionally falling off in gelatinous bits smothered in brown icing. His white powder makeup base receded, revealing exceptionally pale skin, riddled with pimples. I had told everyone jokingly that he wouldn't have needed the face paint much on his milky complexion.

Pan was cracking up to the point where his mom had to walk over amongst the commotion to tell him to be quiet, or else the other children might get annoyed and eventually hit him, which I was never really fond of.

My other best friend's mother, Mrs. Frode, caught multiple pictures of the scene, so she invited me over to her house afterwards to select my favorite one to slide into a slot in my dark blue scrapbook that my mom awarded to me when I finished my first chapter book, _The Egg of the Confused Rabbit_.

It was quite the page turner, following a rabbit that came across an egg one day on its bloodcurdling search for carrots. It raised the egg and its contents as its own, turning out to be a soft, yellow, rambunctious chick that never followed the rabbit's instructions.

After spending an hour or so flipping through the stack of pictures, desperately trying to figure out which one I wanted for my scrapbook, while having River — my best friend — anxiously wait beside me, tugging my sleeve to come and play with her and attempting to "assist" with finding the right picture, I finally chose one of the clown's running makeup to remind me of the horrid adventure.

I was a strange child.

"Clowns are terrible," I repeat. "The trick is to smash their face into a flaming cake."

"What?" is the reply I hear, like the speaker is almost unconscious, which is partly true (sleep is tricky.)

"Nothing, you're dreaming," I lie, extending my legs upward and rushing away as quickly as my feet can take me.

"Yeah...okay...yeah..." Calum settles back down remarkably quickly. How do people manage to do that?

I turn around, smirking. "You thought," I laugh, abruptly tripping over my shoes once I finish declaring my victory, a tragic betrayal on my own part.

" _You_ thought," I'm sure I can hear someone whisper faintly.

~~~~~

Once again, Peter made the decision to move about, but this time, we're headed back to camp, probably to retrieve Giuseppe from his prison cell of a building.

Along with walking, Peter has a pounding urge to be with Giuseppe at all times. I'm notably stupefied that he didn't crush the thing down in his messenger bag to at least have his aura clogging up our senses; he likes torturing us.

"How much longer?" Snow whines, dragging her feet in the sand.

I watch her cautiously, crossing my fingers that there won't be another episode like yesterday. I notice how her shoes are skimming the ground affectionately, and I wince; if not already, there will be more sand in her socks.

"How should I know?" Peter retorts, without switching his gaze from ahead.

"You always know."

Impatience hangs in the air. We're all fed up with Peter's hyperactive ambitions, but Snow, so far, has been the only one to call him out on it.

"Why do you—" Peter starts, but is paused by the sight of Snow's body crumpled on the ground, her light hazel eyes remaining wide open.

Calum shrieks and sprints to her side. "What happened?" he croaks, searching for a clue as to why she suddenly lost consciousness.

"It must've been her turn," I muse, pausing as I digest the heartless things I say without a filter. It's like I'm turning into Mr. Sparrow.

"You're next," Peter responds sharply, glaring at me with a sort of fire in him, something I've somehow never seen.

"That isn't helping." My gaze falls on Calum, whose eyes are already blotchy from tears; they seem to flood out gallons at a time, which leads me to believe that he does a lot more crying than he lets on. I suddenly feel a stab of regret for not giving him my whole attention before.

"Dead," Calum murmurs, checking Snow's pulse. "She just fell down and died."

And all so soon, so abrupt. Snow had so much to do — the Community needed her especially. There's no one to fill her gap, whether it's in the form of a Candidate, or in her lively cheer being brought back into our presence. But now there's nothing left. Only our memories remain to carry Snow back home. She should've gotten something else.

Like a camera. There should've been a camera somewhere to record this harrowing event, to prove that she died this way, not some alternate occurrence that the Community wants their Citizens to believe.

Even more than earlier, the great desire to tell someone about Snow rushes in like a tsunami of gigantic proportions. I need to share her story with the rest of the world, however limited it seems, however separated the Community has made it.

 _No one's going to believe you_ , a portion of my brain nags me — the part filled with denial and hesitation, taking apart every idea I've ever had and searching for flaws in the plan. But I need someone to concur, even if it's just one person, even if it's just a random Citizen. I _need_ to remember her.

"And I didn't even get to finish my sentence," adds Peter insensitively.

Calum lurches forward, in an attempt to strangle his presumptuous comrade — if the mutual pleasure even extends that far — but I hold his shoulders in place, a job that I would normally leave to Snow.

"Brush him off," I say. "Peter's always like this." However, in no way am I excusing him. I walk up to Peter and swing my leg into his stomach.

He doubles over, but makes no sounds, possibly using a breathing exercise to suppress the pain. "God, Florence," he gasps, his face turning a dark hue of purple.

"Jerk," Calum cries between sobs. "I didn't even want to do this. I don't want to go on. Now that Snow's gone, I just..."

We both stare at Calum, confused, as his breathing continues to hitch tremendously.

"Depression," he begins. "It's been gnawing at me since I was fourteen. I hid it. I tried so hard. I wanted to leave, but she didn't let me. No, she told me to stay, but I didn't want to, I didn't." He breaks down completely, the scrunched up face and all, with his eyes swollen and red.

"Calum?" A wary tone fills my voice, fear banging in my stomach.

"I'm mostly just called the bipolar kid. God, why couldn't I have just left it alone?" Calum's speech is as hastened as ever, flying as quickly as a bird, though coming dangerously close to the rocks on the shore.

"That was properly treatable ages ago!"

"With my mother, things were different," Calum chokes out, allowing a salivated string ooze out of him. "She was the one who inflicted the trauma on me, which caused it at an earlier age than expected. She wanted someone to blame her problems on. That rested on me, her psycho failure of a kid."

I cringe at his use of the derogatory remark. The only thing worse than a neurotypical person using ableist language is neurodivergent people using them against themselves, as if all has been lost for them, as if their mere existence is a mistake.

"Depressive stage," Peter chimes in. "Usually follows a manic episode."

"Don't try to classify him!" I snap. Tears well up in my eyes, spilling onto my cheeks tediously.

If Peter had done adequate research, he would know that a depressive episode doesn't usually come from seeing your best friend die — it comes from much more common activities, striking randomly. Death is a superior incentive to merely fall down and cry, not develop the next part of a mental illness.

I told myself I wouldn't show weakness the moment I stepped into this the Dome, but I didn't imagine the tragedy that would befall in the confines of this space. I've already witnessed too much and I hate it — I just want it gone. I want to get out of here.

"Well," Peter amends, or at least tries to, "he's probably done the research already."

My eyes widen, as if I had been struck by a club directly in the stomach.

Peter's mouth is thick with callous words, each flick of the tongue carrying a sharp poison, a poison of which he is unaware, which makes it all the more deadly.

"I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!" Calum screams into the Dome's atmosphere.

In that moment, I realize that Calum is at his most vulnerable place, where he has let all of his rage out in front of Peter and me, and though water leaks on the outside, there is a massive storm on the inside that he has yet to share with us, but I assume he never will.

Calum is in the rawest of states, and I notice how terrifyingly beautiful he is. He is the mere concept of depth, as he reveals himself to us. I can see his interior how it truly is and I am rendered speechless by the slight thought that Calum has the energy to destroy himself and everyone around him. Because he is magnificent. He is the imagery of beautiful, terrible and incredibly vain in its own self.

"It takes away my comprehension of simple things. It prohibits me from making friends. It even makes me feel like I'm destined for something greater, but it's all a delusion. And _I didn't deserve it_."

The ideas all come tumbling in; why he stays away from people, why he grasps so tightly to the relationships he's formed and why, now, he is a weeping mess.

He is stronger than all of us combined. The Community knows it, too, but they warped him. They turned him into a self-hating individual who has so much potential inside, potential that the government keeps hidden.

"Of course you didn't deserve it, I—"

" _No_." Calum's voice is thick with warning. "You don't understand. My life was so much easier, but now I can't even think straight anymore. It's a blur and it's sickening, because there's nothing I can do to prevent my imminent doom.

"So if that seizure I had yesterday will end my life when it forces its repercussions on me, I will accept it with open arms."

I stare blankly at Calum, at a loss for words. I'm not equipped to handle shocking news very well, I never have been. "Calum, it's going to be okay," I tell him, rubbing his back, but he flicks my hand away and penetrates my rationality with those crystal blue eyes of his.

"The Community is trying to kill us — except you, of course. You're just so perfect and you can do anything—"

"Calum!" I force him to look at me, a pleading signal jumping around, trying to escape and warn everyone. We stay in this position for a few moments of humid silence — even Peter obliges to the lack of noise.

"Just trying to dull the pain," Calum mutters.

I'm losing him. I'm trying so hard, struggling against the current, but he's falling apart and my hands simply aren't big enough to catch him.

"We're your friends! We can help you!"

"I don't _have_ friends, Florence! Bipolar disorder took that from me, too. There's nothing for me. I _want_ to die.

"Do you know what it's like to stare death in the face every day? I do. And it's pandemonium. He visits me in my dreams, so I avoid him at a great sacrifice — my wellbeing. Every time you think I'm passed out on the ground, I'm just trying to suck it up and rest, because I'm human, and, as much as I hate it, sleep is essential to life."

I peer down at the ground as Calum grabs Snow's hand. Even Peter looks solemn.

"It's been over seven minutes," Calum breathes, changing the subject after a moment of silence. "Her brain has finally shut down completely."

I let out a deep sight as Calum stands and brushes off his shirt.

"I guess there's no point in trying to save her."

My chest aches at his comment and I try to reach out to him, but I say nothing. There's no fixing what is broken.

"Should we move on then?" Peter suggests quietly.

Calum nods slowly and proceeds to pull his feet along the sand.

I linger for a moment, taking one last prolonged look at Snow before joining the boys on their journey back to the building.

_Goodbye, Snow._

_~~~~~_

 

"How are you, Florence?" Calum asks, strolling over to the rock I'm perched atop, swinging my legs absently.

"I'm okay."

He hoists himself up beside me, simpering pleasantly.

I'm quite surprised at his joyous nature, given that his best friend just dropped down dead in front of him and he confessed his darkest secrets to us.

"Euphoria," Calum murmurs, clarifying for me. "Symptom of...you know."

"Oh, well that's good. At least you're happy."

"No, it's not good. It's alarming," Calum corrects me, shifting in his place and glancing down at his lap. "I could do some unintended things in this state of nirvana, things that I will be ashamed of. It brings me confidence, tons of it, but it makes me terribly reckless."

"Oh," I sigh, halting my legs' motion. "You want to talk about it?"  
"No, but thank you. I want to talk about your hand."

"My hand?" All that's on my hands are some freckles, miniscule hairs, and one circular, pink scar on my left.

"I noticed your scar the first time I saw you. I've been speculating on how you obtained it, but I've come to no adequate conclusion."

"Oh, that thing? That's nothing," I lie, covering my hand by sliding it under my thigh slowly, so that he won't see.

"Would you like to tell me? I need closure."

With Calum, it's all about figuring things out. He will stop at nothing until he can directly pinpoint the source of whatever it is he's laboring to find.

"It's not that extraordinary of a story, though. You'll be disappointed."

"No, I won't. I love hearing about new things, eminently when the storyteller burbles excitedly about the concepts they're so ebullient about."

This comment brings new hope for me, as Calum enjoys the ardor of others, listening as their adventures unfold like a map leading him into their lives.

"Before I start, I'd like you to know that I am hopelessly bad at sports. I prefer academics, but I suppose I'm pretty great at aiming."

Calum nods, imploring me to continue.

"I was at the playground after school when I was twelve, waiting for Mrs. Curtis, my guardian, to pick me up.

"My friend challenged some other girls and me, along with my best friend, Pan, to a game of basketball for a piece of watermelon-flavored chewing gum. I was bored and I love the stuff, so I consented eagerly, even though I would never actively participate in sports out of my own accord.

"Halfway through the game, I was attempting to block Pan's shot with my hand, but his fingers slid through my skin, revealing the pink and red material underneath. The skin was still attached, folded back across my hand."

Calum flinches, but I continue, not sure what to make of his action.

"I, of course, was apprehensive, recognizing that to be the scar tissue. Pan barely noticed, so, of course, he didn't apologize."

"Well that sucks," Calum mutters, amused. "Did she give you the chewing gum, though?"

"No!" I exclaim, throwing my arms in the air in frustration. "Her mother came before I got out of my makeshift rehab."

"Well that's a good thing I have some gum inside my messenger bag. It's watermelon-flavored, too." Calum winks, causing butterflies to hammer relentlessly in my stomach.

"Give me the gum," I demand, drawing out the syllables fiercely.

"Eh... I'll think about it," Calum teases.

I hope he understands how much danger he's in if he refuses to procure the watermelon-flavored chewing gum I so desperately crave.

"Pan ruined my hand-model career. You better give me your gum!"

I had no intentions of being a hand-model, though if I ever had an extreme need for a job, I could've taken it up, or at least tried before the agency shoved me out their door by immediately spotting my scar.

Sifting through the items in his satchel, Calum draws out a small rectangle, wrapped in shining, silver paper. He hands it to me and I snatch it mercilessly. Calum retracts his hand, flinching at my ferocity.

Peeling back the wrapping, I haltingly slide the chewing gum into my mouth, biting it into bits before it becomes moist just to merge them back together.

"Savoring it, are you?" Calum raises a questioning eyebrow, regaled by my seriousness on this matter — I've finally been avenged after four years; of course I'm going to be clinging to the object with my life.

Calum takes my hand in his, studying my scar intently. "I quite like your scar," he says, to my surprise.

"But why?" I stammer. "It's a perfect circle, placed perfectly in the middle. It doesn't look natural."

"I prefer the unnatural things, the things that still have the courage to exist in this world, to take the caustic remarks of others."

The way Calum phrases things, how he views things, it makes the horrid objects even more beautiful than the seemingly normal ones. He makes the self-conscious people feel worthy of love for the first time in their lives.

"You speak so elegantly," I blurt out, but that's all I blurt out. I don't tell him how he has a new perspective that no one has ever had before. I don't tell him how he has the power to change a gruesome world into a world teeming with never-ending splendor. I say too little for me to convey what I actually mean.

Should I have told him that? I don't know. I hope he doesn't take it the wrong way, because that's something I always do.

"It's just the way I talk," Calum laughs hesitantly, scratching behind his ear where his dark hair curls in a curved shape.

"Yeah, I realize that, but it's so...magnificent."

"Thanks, I think," he replies nervously.

"Sorry, I just really like it. I think it's exceptionally useful for people who aren't so comfortable with their imperfections. You should try public speaking."

Fear fills his eyes to the brim. "We both know that's not going to happen."

"It was worth a shot."

~~~~~ _  
_

"We need to find a way to get out of here," Peter announces, wobbling slightly as he stands on top of the ugly colored couch, Giuseppe tucked under his arm.

The stuffed doll stares at me callously with its unnaturally formed eyes, as if scouring my soul for a weakness it can use against me in the future. I don't trust it.

"It's only a dome, how hard could it be?"

My mind runs through all the dangerous scenarios that could take place (electrocution, brain damage from smacking into the dome like Peter did yesterday, or even being killed if we ever make it out alive), but I simply leave Peter to bathe in his confidence like I usually do — he wouldn't think anything of my stance anyway ("You have very strong opinions, but I have a very strong urge to ignore you.")

"With recent events" — Peter glances at Calum briefly — "I've decided it's only healthy that we leave this place behind us completely." I nod in agreement, for once concurring with his wild plans, his audacious statements. "I want you both to pledge your allegiance to my cause."

I stare at him, baffled, but nonetheless unsurprised at his behavior.

"Oh come on, it's fun!" Peter squeals with excitement, bringing his arms close to his chest and wiggling them around like I used to do when I came home after school to find a generous helping of ice cream resting on the counter — mint chocolate-chip (my favorite).

"I pledge allegiance," I begin, sighing as joy flashes across Peter's face, "to the almighty potato knish of a leader we have here." I cross my arms, satisfied, leaving the prideful figure on the couch to wither angrily.

"Yeah, what she said," Calum quietly adds.

"We'll continue this later," Peter promises coolly, narrowing his eyes at both of us as he exits the room.

I doubt he'll be able to remember his endeavor by tomorrow, so I merely shrug and throw myself onto the couch.

A book with terribly torn pages lays on the floor, with paper poking out from all sides and angles, hidden behind the rubble and the distasteful green couch.

~~~~~

_Ooh, a diary._

I glance around and find Calum's face buried in the ground, so I continue to rummage through things to find the book. Shoving my hand into the torn fabric, I lift my legs and swing them over the structure to obtain an adequate view of the journal.

I clear the remaining pieces of wood away and it stands in front of me, radiating an ignored vibe. Kneeling down, I take it in my hand and leaf through the pages, stuffed with sloppy writing and endless words. My finger wedges itself in a page and I open to find a poem entitled _Sand_.

_The sand is always there,_

_Burning into my feet,_

_As if a bit of intimidation,_

_Could tell me to retreat_

_It thinks it owns me,_

_It thinks it's won,_

_But I've faced too much tragedy,_

_To misjudge when I am done_

_Sand seeps into my mind,_

_Warping my vision of mankind,_

_For a traveler, I have much to fear_

_For the sand is the one who revels in tears._

_Walking along, I bare my teeth,_

_Through the fiery pits of what's underneath,_

_But I'm not finished, not quite yet,_

_For the heat will flee when the sun turns to set_

A symbol borders the paper, a product of an off-kilter mind perhaps. It resembles a bird, though formed with only straight lines. It occurs to me that maybe the artist doesn't desire to have his drawing deciphered.

I run my fingers over the words, engraved into the page through fury and a few minutes of extra time. The marks are like craters on the moon, or even those made on the earth by fallen rocks from space — they weren't meant to be there; their course was averted.

_Is this Calum's?_

With all the arduous things he's been telling Peter and me, it's relatively understandable that he should keep a set of his poems, but it isn't in his nature to leave it out in the open — he is particularly secretive and organized.

I turn the page to find another poem called _Wind Walker_ , with its main interest placed on a mysterious girl without a specified name.

_I call her the Wind Walker,_

_Not because she is fictitious,_

_Or above this world,_

_But because she is centered in reality._

_She thinks nothing of herself,_

_Though I wish she would,_

_But my discouraging words never help,_

_For they hate her as much as she does._

_I wish I could tell her I'm sorry,_

_That I don't mean the things I say,_

_But the trigger is so final,_

_That she ought to stay away._

_I hate the way she looks at me,_

_Her precious soul so damaged,_

_Because I am the monster that turned her,_

_The one that made her fall from the clouds._

_Taking a moment to interpret the meaning of the poem, I flip to the next page, with the title penned in hastened writing. It's called _Fate_._

_It's terrifying, the way it seems,_

_Nightmares masquerading as dreams,_

_Terror bursting at the seams,_

_But you sew it up and try to forget the screams._

_I thought it so unkind of you to do such a thing,_

_When their future relies on a simple rope ring,_

_You cannot deny that the memories cling,_

_That you can never escape the sharpness of their sting._

_You hate the very existence of cheer,_

_Your faith in life so drastically shear,_

_But you shan't worry, nor have any fear_

_For my name is fate and your fate is near._

I become so entranced in the land of the words dotting the page that I lose track of time and all forms of reality. I have no idea how long I spent skimming through these, but I decide I have to read just one more — for closure, I suppose.

It doesn't seem to last long, though, like most things I discover, tangible or not.

"What are you doing?" Peter's voice interrupts my unsolicited browsing with a start.

I quickly slam the book closed and look up to Peter with his arms crossed in a tight formation, annoyance flashing on his dirt-stained face. "Been playing in the mud, have you?" I reply, endeavoring to mask the previous event with a bit of acerbic humor.

"It's not nice to snoop, you know." Peter kicks his way through the trash littering the building and stops in front of me, his tall figure looming over me. He crosses his legs once he's lowered himself to the ground, giving me a frank stare.

"Calum writes amazing poems. Here, check 'em out."

"Those," Peter snaps, snatching the poems from me, "are not Calum's."

"They must've been left behind from the previous residents." I frown at the raggedy cover, laboring to decode its secrets and backstory. The book is made from leather, worn and tethered from age and use. Its binding string dully rests on the ground from being pulled from the spine. It could've been left by a lobby concierge who doodled and wrote in it in their free time, or whenever a hotel resident wasn't throwing questions in their face.

"What makes you think they're not mine?"

"You?" I snort. "A poet?" Peter continues to remain serious and my face falls in realization.

_Peter can't be a poet. The most artistic thing he's said is that Giuseppe fell from the tree of beauty by accident, which is a pretty unrealistic accusation; there aren't any trees in the Dome._

"It's a perfectly logical form of passing the time. It works better than you and your 'quotes'."

Until now, I had thought quotes were an advantageous tactic to keep motivation intact throughout the horrible obstacles we're forced to endure.

"What's with the constant use of the word, paramnesia?" I interject, pointing to the only pristine page that includes a poem entitled _Whispers_ ; spots have been filled in with the same word all throughout the stanzas.

"It's when I'm lacking a word, when I can't remember the meaning of a word I was intending on using," Peter informs me coolly. "Marks the spot for future revision." Peter shifts in his spot. He brushes the stray hairs out of his face and lets out a deep sigh.

"Why do you really write poems?" I ask. It can't be because he's genuinely a masterful wordsmith.

I know he's hiding most of his information. It's obvious he doesn't trust me, but who could blame him? I would assume he has no spare time from spewing insults every which way.

Peter doesn't strike me as the kind of person to write poems just for a leisure activity. There has to be something else going down inside; I just know it.

"Florence..."

"I want to know."

He fiercely looks me in the eyes with his flaming irises, filled with passion, hate, and mistrust. I notice the small flecks of gold lacing the circle, miniscule and remote in numbers, but visible when I peer closely. The texture reminds me of the faraway galaxies we were forced to learn about in grade school, that I always found an interest in. The black hole of a pupil centers the scene perfectly — not too small, not too large — and expands a bit. Who knew green could be so beautiful?

"I try to get out all the rage, all the feelings that are so welled up inside me that sometimes I can't breathe."

"I thought you were happy. It sure seemed like it."

I recall all the memories in which I had figured he was enjoying himself, prancing around with limitless energy, creating witty remarks as he went. The sinking feeling that most of the time he cries himself to sleep slithers into my thoughts, but I struggle to keep it at bay.

"I lie constantly. It's not so much compulsive as it is essential. I lie to you about most things, as I did since I moved here from Cambridge.

"My parents died when I was fourteen, Florence. Almost two years ago. I hid under my bed while soldiers slammed through my house and ripped them from me. I had to lie about that thing, too — I told people they died when I was six, so that people would be more understanding of my situation; Director Damon was elected only this year. The last Director would've been too close to her. And do you hear that?"

I shake my head.

"Of course you don't. It's the gunfire that plays through my mind as I march along and pretend it's okay. It's my requiem. And I know someday, you'll be able to hear it, too. I'll fall to the ground, blood seeping out of me and you won't care. I know you won't. And look," he starts, running a hand through his brown locks, "I'm sorry I've been such a jerk to you. It's my way of coping, and it's horribly inhumane and inconsiderate."

"Peter—"

" _Don't_." He shies away, squeezing his eyes shut as if to block out the pain, as if to block out _me_ , especially block me out from caring about him.

"You're not going to die." I take his hands and press down in reassurance. I rub my thumb over his fingers, feeling every groove, familiarizing myself with the foreign texture.

"Don't you see? I'm already going insane. Calum is sick and Snow's already died and God knows you're going to lose me, too. I'm just a casualty."

"Peter, maybe Snow was just an accident."

"Then why have these things been happening?"

No matter how hard I try, I can't deny the fact that he's right about this — all of it. Peter and Calum are on their way to death and I'm next.

Tears cascade down his face, from madness and bitterness, and he wipes them constantly with the dirt-encrusted back of his hand.

 _He doesn't like to cry in front of people, does he? He's so shut up inside himself, so locked up, that he resents the thought of showing emotions._ _I pity Peter Sparrow._

"It wasn't intentional," I whisper, wiping my eyes to prevent an onslaught of the waterworks.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

"I will. Believe it or not, I've gotten kind of attached to you. I've decided I need a pet, though" — I pause, searching him up and down with a judgmental countenance — "you don't seem very domesticated."

"Don't joke around, Florence."

I frown slightly at being shut down. It's important for him to be happy. "It's what you do, and if you're upset with me for using it, then it's definitely not healthy for you to be utilizing the same tactic every moment of every day. And it's true; you're an asset to our survival."

Peter does this all day, every day as a way to keep people from suspecting that there's an internal battle. That's why it's so difficult to comprehend that he's telling the truth when revealing occasions like these occur.

"And that's _all_ you think of me?"

"That's all I wish to share."

With my self-conscious nature, it's extremely formidable to hint at anything secretive, especially with those certain people I fear without an explanation.

"No, please flatter me some more."

There's the Peter I know!

He smiles slightly and bites his lip, casting his eyes on the ground. This angle creates a shadow covering his eye sockets, making him appear relatively dark, much like the ideas he wishes to express to me.

"I hate flattery. How many ways can I find to say 'thank you'?"

I feel myself start to come out to Peter, emerging from the mask that suggested I am a polite kind of person — lady-like, as Mrs. Curtis would call it. Since when does a girl have to conform to society's stereotype that they're only meant to be seen and well-behaved? This caused quite the argument between Mrs. Curtis and me before the school's choir show.

Peter breaks out in a coughing fit, as tears continue to slope down and break the dams he had tried so carefully to keep strong.

"You are a battle wound, Peter. But there are doctors that can help. They fix everyone, regardless of status, injury, _anything_. Some people shy away, try to escape treatment and eventually, they probably die, with their last thread of hope clutched to their open and bloody chest. You are _not_ a casualty."

"I've had _enough_ of doctors to last a lifetime. I'm going insane right before my eyes. I will tear my hair out, dig my nails into my skin, and maybe I'll even hurt people. Maybe I'll even hurt _you_. I don't know how much longer I have and I'm going to die soon. Don't try to doubt the inevitable. Sometimes death is the best cure to pain."

"You can't mean that."

"But I do. It's all I've ever known. There aren't always happy endings, Florence. I thought you knew that." Peter's expression wavers in ambivalence. "I'm not like you. You're so brave."

"I'm only brave because I have to be. I don't think that amounts to anything. And I wouldn't even consider myself courageous in any way. I do what has to be done, though fearfully."

"It amounts to more than you know. You still have ambition, passion. I can only dream of those things. You still have a future. I don't."

"Don't say that, Peter. Please don't." My eyes are molded by a pleading countenance, and all I want is for him to just be confident in himself, even if it's only a little bit.

"I just want to make sure you realize that you can let go. Minimize the pain. Just forget about me, and you won't feel anything when I die." His voice sounds hollow, hopeless.

"I'm not letting you just drift away from me, Peter Sparrow."

Peter suddenly lunges towards me and wraps his dirty arms around my waist, squeezing tightly. The river flowing down his crumpled visage lands on my shirt with soft splashes in imperfect circular formations.

"You're so weird." My voice breaks as I bury my face into his shoulder and slide my hands around the back of his neck dramatically.

Suddenly pulling away, Peter apologizes profusely, shaking his head and looking at the dusty floor, his demeanor fluctuating drastically.

"Why should you be sorry?"

"Because you hate me, and I'm a mess, and I just—"

"I sure do hate you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you slip out of my fingers like you planned." Abruptly, I stand up, sashaying out the entrance to the building, leaving a confused — and bedraggled — Peter to wallow in his awestruck ambience.

 _Gosh,that was strange_ , Ithink, wiping as many germs as I can off my skin with the back of my hand onceI know Peter's not looking, mostly to uphold the veneer of absolutely _hating_ the fellow Candidate. _But I think it showed him that someone cares— in a very...sensual way._

 


	6. Fear

_One of the most fundamental concepts of_

_the Community's societal system is that_  
antecedence must not be overlooked.  
Everything has a place and that place  
should not be disturbed at all costs.

 _-_ Priorities of the Community _, page 1_

_~~~~~_

I awake on the cold sand, twigs pressing into my back. Attempting to rise, I find myself wincing in pain before I can even uncover the scene around me. My eyes slowly flutter open, revealing the bright, sunny world. Birds circle around, something I haven't seen since I came here. I shield my eyes with the back of my hand, hoisting myself onto my feet after a few failures.

Scanning my eyes over the scene, I notice Calum is asleep, but Peter has left to go elsewhere. For once, the poor boy found rest without the discomfort of demons infiltrating his brain.

_Why is it always so hard to find Peter?_

I untangle my foot from my blanket, shaking it like my life depends on it. I steal a glance at Calum before planning to slip outside to search for the runaway, but I linger for just one more moment. I scatter the materials clinging to me across the ground and storm into the distance to forget the pain, a hard expression on my face, which must be queer to observe — but alas, it's only the three of us (or just me, seeing as I'm the only one here).

What could possibly live here anyway? I ponder this matter for a while, sticking to my trail of thought like glue that won't fall away as easily as humans — definitely not.

My ideas are extremely far-fetched. Reality is somewhat unclear to me. Something that can seem like the best thing in the world, something legitimate, will be reflected upon later as the worst mistake of my life.

The Evaluation selection flashes through my mind, when I believed this would be an honor — that watching my friends struggle to survive would be an undeniable prospect of becoming sixteen. I couldn't have known; I wouldn't have been so carefree about the whole thing if I realized that we would all be on the cusp of insanity merely a week later.

Calum stirs next to my foot, murmuring as his leg shifts closer to me, and I spring back so as not to wake him up.

Deciding to locate Peter, I swiftly shuffle away, leaving a storm of dust in my wake that swirls into the sky like a grand tornado.

After a few minutes of hopelessly searching the terrain and letting my mind wander, I spot Peter by a splintered log, his back turned to me. As I approach, I notice him rocking back and forth, hands on his forehead in deep thought.

Sometimes Peter's motions can be rather erratic, such as raking his nails up and down his skin, twitching nervously, and speaking in jumbled verse, just to name a few. I worry about him, but I don't dare confront him about it — it could mean injury for both of us.

"Do you have to pee or something?" I ask, squinting my eyes, mildly concerned.

No response.

"Peter?"

Suddenly, he bursts to life, catching me off guard. He wrestles me to the ground and I take in his ragged state: cheeks hollow from lack of nourishment (though it seems unlikely — the Community supplied us with plenty of food), eyes wrinkled with what looks like an eternity of fretting, hair poking out in every angle imaginable, and even his gaunt demeanor has made an unforgettable appearance.

White froth seeps from his mouth, occasionally dripping onto my shirt with a slight splash. His hair is a mess, with blood and dirt staining his face — his own, I assume. It appears as though he contracted a bit of the sickness Calum possesses, but I pass it off as a simple case of the natural order. Peter becomes more and more unrecognizable as my eyes chase the frenzied patterns dotting his skin.

I try with all my might to struggle free, but the more I do, the harder he tightens his grasps on my shoulders. Forcing them upward, I knee him in the stomach and he collapses beside me, gasping for breath exhaustingly.

I scramble to get up, sprinting away. My lungs burn from the exhilaration derived from my now depleted supply of energy, but I must keep going, no matter how hard it gets; I taught myself that a long time ago.

Peter soon follows, drawing a knife from his ripped holster on his arm. He tackles me, bringing the object to my face. My breath creates condensation upon it, and I must note that, for once, it isn't beautiful, reminiscent of the morning fog in autumn. I watch as the fogginess spreads like a virus to clear my thoughts from the everlasting pain to come. It seems to absorb my temperature as well. I feel my face drain of color as the sharp piece of metal nears my cheek.

"Peter, stop!" I yell, wriggling under his hands that pin me down. "This isn't you! This isn't the Peter I know!"

I become faint as I anticipate the blade's contact to my skin, now dirtied with sand and a bit of disgusting bodily foam. Peter connects the knife to a region just below my right eye and I release a bloodcurdling scream that neither Calum nor a deceased Snow would find audible in their positions currently.

The scar I can deal with. The pain, however, is a whole different story. It is like nothing I've ever experienced before, a burning sensation spreading throughout my whole body. At first, it seems like a simple jolt, like being pricked by a pin, that my only focus should be on removing Peter's limp body from mine, but soon, it turns to something else entirely.

It consumes my whole ambition, marking black dots as it skirts my vision hastily. My nerves all react dramatically, as if in a theatrical production teeming with boisterous syllables echoing through the auditorium. It seems to paralyze me, putting an end to my plan of overthrowing Peter.

Taking my hand, I dab at my wound, gasping at the dark red color of the blood. The only occasion I had encountered it in my mouth was when brushing my teeth furiously, but somehow, it blankets my tongue with its horrid texture rather quickly. The bitter, metallic taste fills my whole mouth, sliding down my throat. It's the most repulsive thing I've ever had the misfortune of detecting.

The liquid leaves a sinister trail down my face as it scours my skin for openings to seep into. I remind myself, in this moment, of the terrifying horror movie villains that plagued my childhood — I never wanted to be like them, at any cost.

Coughing and hacking rupture my ability to fight back, to escape from the excruciating feeling correlated with cuts, so I push Peter's hand away, utilizing all of my remaining strength to complete a task so simple, so ordinary. The knife falls to the ground, but he continues to persist, making do with only his fists.

"Peter," I whisper. I gaze softly into his squinted eyes, filled with so much anger and hate, and I hold his trembling shoulders. "You're not insane. Not just yet."

Peter's whole body shakes, like a vibration expelled from a cat's lungs as it rubs against you, though his actions are not so tender.

I bring him close, desperately needing the comfort of another human being just as much as he does.

And it feels nice. For once, it does. For once, I don't have to be conflicted by the touch of someone else, folding my body to take up less space and to avoid them. For once, I allow myself to breath in what is truly Peter Sparrow, mixed with a bit of environmental accent. I don't writhe in his clutch, I don't lean on him wholly, and I don't speed up my breathing in an act of anxiety. What we have in this moment is a mutual bond that is only broken when one half denies the benefits of holding someone so close to oneself. But we need each other, therefore the ties shall not be severed.

"Oh my God," Peter whispers. "Oh my God." He takes his hair in his hands, holding on tightly as if binding them permanently to never let go, to never be able to harm anyone ever again; he's had enough. Tears begin to flow like a river down his face, partially clearing the mess of nature's substances. "I'm so sorry. Y-you'll never forgive me..." Peter's voice breaks and he lets out a mangled wail, cutting through the cool, morning air.

"Peter, it's okay." I wipe away the remaining blood off me, though it continues to run down steadily, disproving my previous statement. "See? It's only a cut."

"It's going to scar."

"Then let it scar!" I howl, throwing my hands in the air.

Peter pauses, his eyes crinkling with sadness. "Scars are proof that you've lived, that you've touched the world as much as it's touched you. But I don't want yours to be from your worst memories. I don't want you to be reminded of what happened here. I don't want you to look and the mirror and think about me. Because I am no hero; I am a villain; and I deserve to be discarded."

These are not my worst memories. These are occurrences that lived to see the day, just as I shall. Peter may have done a number on me, but that's only physical; he's going through a lot more on an emotional scale.

If I ever do glance back at myself in a mirror (though I doubt I could stand to witness my form that aged too early from the tumult of conflict), it won't be depressing to find that the scar left from a few years prior is still marked prominently on my skin. It will be refreshing. The joyful connotations will flood back, bringing a bright, glowing smile to my face. I don't want to forget these memories.

I want to tell the stories of Snow Leclerc, Peter Sparrow, and Calum Zabel to my children so that they may rest peacefully with the knowledge that they are safe. I want to be able to think about my friends that guided me along the rough time in the Dome. I want to leave this world with the understanding that, no matter how hard I try, no matter how much effort I put into obliterating these times, I simply cannot. I am protected by my remembrance.

I, of course, don't remind Peter of any of this. Sometimes silence is best uninterrupted, and a pending concern is most appropriately left in the midst of being unanswered.

"I'm a threat to you, Florence," Peter croaks out. "I'm insane. You can't persuade me to think like you anymore."

He's so transfixed on that simple opinion that he refuses to see the brighter side of things. Calum and I can help him make it through without being damaged completely. I will stay awake singing lullabies throughout the night until he drifts into sleep, forfeiting my own rest. I will offer the remainder of my food to him when I notice even a simple wrinkle in his motivation. I will make sure he never feels alone, even when his mind strictly informs him otherwise. Peter Sparrow is not insane as long as I'm around.

After catching a glimmer of pain in Peter's eyes, I say, "Hey...you didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

A glimpse into silence.

"No."

More silence.

"I think I have to leave," Peter speaks up suddenly.

I jog up to him, grabbing his arm so that he twists to me. "You're not leaving. After all that time I spent into calming you down, you're staying here."

"And why is that?" His jaw is clenched, his eyes stern.

"Who else would I have to annoy me?"

"Leave me alone, Florence! I don't want to hurt you!" He wrenches free of my grasp, biting his lip to choke back tears. Eventually, they begin to cloud his eyes and he looks off to the side.

"Then promise me one thing."

Peter glances down at the ground, avoiding my question for as long as he can.

"Promise me you'll come back."

He collapses to the sand in a fit of hysterical crying and I soon follow, bringing him close to me once again.

"Don't go," I mutter into his hair.

"Why does it mean so much to you?"

And then it hits me: why Peter detaches himself from others, why he is so unadaptable, why his mordancy travels with him constantly. He's afraid of commitment. He's afraid that someone will become so dependent on him that he'll feel responsible for them. He fears letting them down just like he believes he let down his family. Peter Sparrow is not a villain, not truly. Peter Sparrow is so concerned about other peoples' self-esteem. Peter Sparrow is caring. And I finally see that.

"I really don't know," I reply, standing and brushing off my clothes, partially stained with blood and Peter's surmounting froth. "You're a pig."

A part of me regrets changing the subject so abruptly, but I can tell he's uncomfortable with the current one.

"Yet another inspiring thought by Florence." He wipes his tears with his short sleeve, regaining his composure, and clears his throat, continuing. "Hmm, well, that was lovely. Shall we get back?"

The jocular nature returns just as speedily as it had retreated. The air seems to become easier to breathe, the clouds parting to reveal a beautiful, blue sky overhead.

However, an ominous presence settles overtop of me, though only in my own mind. It tells me how Peter dismissed his troubling emotions immediately after we had resolved them, like some sort of survival skill. This must be one of many.

I nod, taking a deep breath before strolling with him back to our camp, paying particular notice to the thinning leaves dotting the ground. I smile sweetly, thinking about how I used to cup them in my hands to breathe in their scent as a commencing ritual in autumn.

My cut starts to act up once again, sending a rush of electricity through my body. My head swims with pain, but I press my fingers to it, streaking blood across my face, occasionally whimpering when it flares every so often.

"What are we going to do about this?" I gesture to the bleeding gash.

"I thought we decided to let you bleed out."

Rolling my eyes, I devise a solution. "The bush's leaves are sturdy, from what I can tell, and I can use part of my shirt."

"As long as you don't use Giuseppe's," Peter calls back, flinging his arms around his body wildly. "It's the only one he's got."

While I have the opportunity to remind Peter that I only have one set of clothing (and that Giuseppe needs none, for he is inanimate), I refrain from doing so. I'm deprived of energy, and I can only guess he is, too. The thought of putting him through another trial doesn't even cross me.

"Why does that disgusting doll appeal to you so much?" I mutter, narrowing my eyes in a peevish fashion. My question is masked by a pleasant countenance, but I soon come to the conclusion that Peter's love for Giuseppe means so much more than a distracting fetish. In the past twenty-four hours, I've discovered things I never knew possible, the horrors sprouting from Peter Sparrow's mouth.

The truth is, Peter is secluded from people, because he knows the gruesome things they can do. He tried once to get close to someone, but was pushed away to freeze in the pommeling weather.

He's so infatuated with Giuseppe because that's the only thing he has to hold onto. Years and years of reaching to simply take someone's hand have led him to desire the most prosaic of things. While the fact that Giuseppe is merely a stuffed figure and cannot provide any valid consolation is only a troubling afterthought to Peter, I now can only pretend to detest the doll, because Peter needs him desperately. And I cannot take that away.

"Because he's Giuseppe," Peter responds, his voice cracking with ambivalence. But I know. I understand.

By the time we reach our campsite, a frantic Calum is awake and poses in a worried stance, tapping his foot nervously.

"So are you guys lovebirds now?" Calum teases, though a ring of uncertainty and anxiousness sprinkles his words.

"Absolutely not," Peter gasps.

"Florence!" Suddenly recognizing my presence, Calum dashes to me, wrapping his arms around my trembling body.

I wink at Peter as if to say, "No one's hugging _you_ ," but he only counters with a ferocious scowl.

"Hey, Calum, come here!" Peter winks back at me. "Hug me, you egg!"

"Peter, I—"

"Bring it in, my small children! Group hug!" Peter curls his arms around Calum and me, still in an embracing formation, squeezing tightly.

I slide my hand out from under his chest to avoid being crushed, but I loop it around his back right after. It feels peculiar, not as strong as I suspected. During our long walks, Peter never falters, not even once. His form never hunches, he never complains, and he always sustains an appearance of strength. Yet his back, in truth, is so weak, quivering at the slightest touch.

At first, I suck in my breath when Peter's fingers grasp my arm, but I soon wind down with a prolonged sigh. I'm safe here in Peter and Calum's clutch. We're going to make it through this. All of us. I'm sure of it.

~~~~~

I'm sitting alone on a boulder — yes, alone.

Calum is off indulging in isolation. I asked if he needed anything, or if he wanted me to stay with him, but he told me it was imperative that I leave. He could barely talk behind tears, though his rapid speech and racing thoughts were still present. Generally, I would've stood my ground and planted my feet in a place where no one could redirect them; I would've assisted. But something about the way Calum's eyes shone told me otherwise, so I decided to refrain from disturbing him.

And, Peter...well, I don't know where Peter is. Although I still trust him, what happened earlier this morning won't be so easily subtracted from my mind. I'm not going out to look for him again.

After spending a few minutes picking at a particular spot on my knee, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps being marked into the scalding sand. I look up to see Peter trudging over, a sheepish expression cast over his face.

He draws near, though still not saying anything to me. I watch attentively as he pulls himself onto the same boulder, eventually settling down when his side is parallel to mine.

We sit in silence for a long while, listening to the wind rush around our ears. I pretend not to notice Peter's eyes straying over to my face, then quickly returning to the ground as if he'd done something forbidden.

"I'm sorry about...you know," Peter eventually confesses. He reaches his thumb to my face to trace the scar right under my eye, but he retracts his hand after a few seconds, sadness clouding his eyes.

I grasp his hand, still on its descent back to Peter's lap, so I stop its journey and adjust so that my fingers are on top of his. "It's okay," I smile, and I mean it wholly.

Peter recognizes how close my hand is to the holster on his right forearm, and his eyes follow down the length of the leather, ending at the tip of his longest knife, the one I understand to be the thing that marked up my face this morning, which, now that I look closely, is also the knife he held against my neck the first time we met. He locks his gaze with mine before slowly drawing out the blade from the fastener. Clutching the handle in his hand for a prolonged moment, he offers it to me with unsurmountable shyness painted on his face.

"Why are you giving this to me?" I inquire, endeavoring to meet Peter's eyes, but he only turns his head to the side to avoid me.

"I figured you wanted to keep the thing that inflicted so much damage on you," he responds, his head still faced in the opposite direction.

At least to me, it sounds odd to hoard the very object that caused you so much pain, but in this sense, it doubles as a memory of my friends, of my time in the Dome. Most people would refuse to even touch it, though some would oblige, then proceed to bury it or destroy it. I, however, wish to possess it forever.

I reach my arm out slowly, tracing my fingers over the texture of the blade nostalgically before finally taking it, closing my fist around it to seal the deal. "Thank you," I whisper.

Peter shrugs half-heartedly. "I don't want to keep it anyway." Shame manifests shadows upon his face, so, once again, he looks away from me, embarrassed.

I now realize that Peter's giving me the knife because he can't bear to have it with him at all times, not because I somehow need to remember him. I doubt he wants me to; after all he's done, the grief it's brought him is enough to last a lifetime.

"Hey," I coo softly, taking Peter's hands another time, "try not to think about this knife anymore, okay? It's not going to make things better, only cause you stress. I don't want to see you like that, not again."

The frustration that stress evokes isn't the only issue — I'm talking about how his eyes sag with tiredness after a night of screaming and sobbing. I'm talking about how his skin is red and peeling from him spending his day picking at it because of anxiety, yet never considering dermatillomania because he doesn't want to classify himself in a place where he feels he doesn't belong. I'm talking about how his cheekbones, which used to be so perky and full of splendor, are now sharp lines across his face, things that could cut diamonds, if not with their blade-like qualities, then with the tragedy that is associated with them. I'm talking about how he used to be so witty, responding to every comment with something equally, if not more, clever, but now, he lacks the liveliness to even utter anything. I'm talking about how he is a shell of a human being, and how he will never have the privilege of forgetting our experience.

I'm talking about the terror of witnessing death right in front of his eyes.

I remove my hand from his, in fear that I will impulsively hurt him, so I use my words instead of my body. "I don't want to see you gone," I choke out.

Peter nods, and we spend the rest of our time in silence.

~~~~~

"I had the weirdest dream last night."

Calum and I trudge to the nearest boulder, marked prominently on the side of the road, which is basically just a path I drew with my foot while I was waiting for time to fly, by the building where Peter sits in a corner, rocking back in forth like before. I don't want to disturb him, considering what just transpired, earning me a long-lasting scar, so I allow him to continue to lose his mind (but in complete comfort!)

"Oh really?" I challenge, sliding onto the rock. "What was it about?"

Calum heaves himself onto the boulder, planting himself a considerable amount of space away from me. I have to assist him in his endeavor, for his strength has diminished mostly. He tucks a short strand of hair farther behind his ear before beginning.

Calum's stomach growls immodestly, causing him to give me a fearful stare, as if to say, "What the heck was that?"

"It comes with the sickness," Calum clarifies.

"So should I be expecting more of those?" I ask; he nods.

"I dreamt that I was some sort of medieval peasant. You know, from before the Community came around. I'm sure you read about them somewhere in your pre-Community textbooks in school, or something from the restricted section of the library."

_Growl._

Calum laughs, attempting to continue to the climax. "So this goose dressed in a tuxedo made his way through the crowd, hopped onto the stage, and, somehow speaking English, shouted, 'It's courting season! You know what that means. Round up your pelicans and bring them to a feast!'"

"So did you bring your pelican to a feast?" I interject.

"I didn't have a pelican," Calum murmurs quietly.

_Growl._

"Aww, but it's _courting season_ , Calum! You have to have a pelican!"

"I didn't have a pelican, okay?" he snaps defensively.

"Buddy," I laugh, placing a hand on Calum's back, "you messed up."

"I was still saving up for a pelican," he tells me brashly.

"I could've wired you the cash, or we could even share the pelican."

_Growl._

Calum came to me to tell me about his strange dream, and now we're suddenly considering purchasing a pelican together to court with it.

_It would be great fun to get a pelican during courting season though. It would be quite the adventure, trying to avoid being swallowed inside their huge beak._

"What if I don't want to court with a pelican?" Calum finally pipes up.

_Is he serious right now? He literally doesn't want to court with a pelican? Is he okay? Where is he coming from? Who is this guy?_

"How about you don't introduce such negativity to this environment, okay?" I reply, eyes ablaze with alarm, giving him a slight shove.

_Growl._

"Have you had any dreams lately?"

The joking manner of the conversation suddenly shifts downward, heading down a dark road.

I gulp, trying to avoid his quizzical stare.

"No, not really."

"You're lying, aren't you? It's relatively evident. You should really try to mask your emotions better," Calum chuckles softly. "It's okay if you don't want to tell me. I know how it is with privacy."

_Growl._

"You're such a figure of relatability," I cut in, creating a distraction to put a pause on his previous question.

"If you knew what it took to understand everything, you wouldn't aspire to be what I am, Florence." I can tell he hopes I ignore his comment.

I really don't want to disclose the information on my dreams with him, but somehow, Calum telling me that I can share with him compels me to reveal my secrets.

"Well I had one dream."

"What was it about?" Calum asks, completely interested. "You can go slowly if you want. I know it's hard to get things out sometimes."

Even the way Calum leaves out his advanced vocabulary words develops a safe environment, showing that circumstances don't rely on being professional, that it's all right to pour all my opinions all over him.

_Growl._

"I didn't see anything, but I heard voices."

"Go on," Calum beckons, his pupils expanding with infatuation.

_Should I tell him? He seems trustworthy... I'm just not sure I even know myself the meaning of the dream._

"They were arguing... They were arguing about what to do with me."

"What to do with you? As an Evaluation Candidate? That would explain why you haven't contracted anything."

"Yeah, as a Candidate. One was hesitant, saying that it's cruel, what they're doing. The other disputed that it's necessary for the Community's growth, essential to survival. She said that she had lived, now I must. But...it sounded like Director Damon."

"Director Damon? She was a Candidate?" Calum gasps.

_Growl._

"It would explain why she's so avid about the Evaluation."

I can imagine Director Damon twenty-four years ago, still fairly young, pinning up a poster of Director Cadent on her wall of the previous Directors, squealing emphatically on her quilted bed as she pores over the new, brief information pamphlet on the Evaluation and what's to come, assessing it over and over until her eyes dull with tiredness and her parents force her to go to bed, laboring to hide the jealousy rooted inside them as they observe the ordeal, without the faintest clue that she would be chosen for the first Evaluation.

"Last year, it wasn't so fatiguing to be in the Evaluation. I heard about it on the news, and it was nothing like this year. New Director, new rules, I suppose," Calum spectates, recalling when he viewed the highlights on the television. "I don't remember much though."

The Evaluation is rarely spoken about at home, with the only announcements being significant to the Community's progress, something that could assist the Citizens that the government is so fanatic about. It's always been a bit of a touchy subject.

"Do you think all of us are going to die?"

Calum's eyes twinkle with trepidation, casting them to the ground as he considers the scenarios the Community has planned this year. "I don't know what kind of experiment that would be, killing us off like that, like we're just characters in a story and the government's the author. We're vital to their exploration."

_Growl._

Calum clearly knows much more about the Evaluation and the Community than I do, though it seems instinctive, like he's required to learn the rules in order to merely survive.

I don't dare ask him, for I'm sure he obtained this information at a great risk to his safety. He's most likely not supposed to know this stuff — someone could've died acquiring it.

"But, of course, if Peter and I perish in here, that obviously wouldn't account for all of the Candidates. You're still alive and well.

"Considering the endless possibilities, the Community might dispose of us after they're finished with their experiments. They're manipulative. They don't care about us — they only care about their 'growth' and their precious 'Citizens'. We were Citizens once. Now what?" Anger blazes in Calum's eyes as his jaw clenches furiously.

I've never seen him this livid. I've only seen him breaking down in tears, but never so hateful, wishing death on everyone that put him here.

"We didn't deserve this. We definitely didn't ask for this. They chose us, warped the concept of the Evaluation to seem prideful, but it's not like that at all. The similarities of valor and the Community are almost nonexistent."

Calum, though he hides much, is the most truthful person I've ever had the pleasure of encountering. He informs me about the horrors the Community is planning under the radar. The Citizens are oblivious, and he recognizes that, even revels in it. Calum's waiting for the right opportunity to strike at the heart, surprise the people.

His theory is that once the Citizens discover the insidious motives of their government, they will be equipped with the proper anger to fight back and overthrow the Community who has plagued them for so long.

"To be quite honest," I start, sighing as I recall the pathetic details of my younger self's aspirations, "I was the most excited person you've ever seen when it came to the Evaluation. I was obsessed. I was so determined to become a Candidate that it was all I would think about. It was a superior motive to raise my grades to perfection."

Calum stares at me in shock as my joints tense, an uneasy feeling settling in my stomach. I smile self-consciously. He soon remembers that it's "impolite to stare", so he lowers his gaze to ponder this disquieting piece of news.

"I suppose you're a fitting example of how uninformed the Citizens are. It's tragic, really. Perhaps it's useful to have someone like you on our side. You know what it's like to have utter trust in the Community."

_Growl._

The way this comes out, it sounds malicious, like Calum's subtly dropping hints about how disgusted he actually is about my preceding status.

On the other hand, it sounds merely like I'm an enterprise, like my only worth is to be useful to him. I try not to let that affect my judgement, that it's not what he meant, but somehow, I can't seem to stop myself.

"Yeah, I suppose," I murmur, running my thumb over my fingers as a distraction.

"I sounded rather impetuous, didn't I? I apologize, Florence. I speak quite rapidly and out of order, paying no mind to what's coming out..."

"It's okay," I respond.

His apology seemed sincere — though filled with an excuse — but I can't help but blame myself for being so ignorant, enough so to spawn that comment.

But that's all I am — blameful. I take the fall for other people's mistakes, but they never do anything about it; they only sit there and watch as I tear myself apart, because _at least it's not them, right_?

"Except I know it's not," Calum says, looking me in the eyes no matter how hard I do my best to squirm out of his stare. "You just say that for kicks."

_Why does he have to know everything about my life?_

"Yeah, so what?"

"It's not healthy for you." His eyes are hard as granite, as cold as ice. He means business, and part of business is maligning.

So I accept the challenge. "Says the one who has intermittent mental sutures."

Calum seems hurt by my comment, the color draining from his already pale face, his eyes softening with dolefulness.

Immediately, I regret ever letting those words fly free from my lips, or even thinking them at all. I must mend all that is amiss, or whatever it is that someone had said before. "I'm sorry."

"Now it's my turn to say, 'It's okay.'" Calum lets out an artificial chuckle.

_Please don't, Calum. Please don't submerge yourself in the same denial that I have for so many years. I hate seeing you like this._

"Please don't use that term." The corners of my mouth lift in an uneasy expression to convey my mistrust.

"Believe it or not," Calum starts, "that phrase isn't exclusive to you. I've had a few encounters with it myself — I hate it."

"Don't we all?" I laugh nervously.

_Growl._

The thought of Calum using that term so externally nonchalantly while crumbling on the inside is heartbreaking, though nevertheless unsurprising; it shouldn't have to be, though.

We are coated in silence for a moment, until Calum suddenly speaks up. "You know, I'm not even sorrowful about Snow," he declares quietly. "I should be, but I'm not."

My eyes wrinkle with confusion. "I thought she was your best friend."

"Best friend?" Calum draws out the two words like they're a foreign entity. "I've never had a best friend before."

My breath plummets like a rock off of a cliff, landing with a thud of hard recognition. He's reminded me many times that his disorder prohibits much social interaction, let alone allowing him to enter a state of bemoaning. Snow was the closest thing he had to a friend — at least that's what I perceived — but now he writes her off as a casualty. My stomach twists in resentment.

"I know it sounds harsh, but..." Calum trails off, collecting his words. "Snow was a lifeline to me, only that. She guided me through the struggle of my parlous days, but beyond that, I'm not sure what she is to me. I have no idea what a friend looks like, but, and correct me if I'm wrong, she didn't conform to my procrustean standards."

Listening to Calum describe Snow in the way he's doing so currently gradually begins to unwillingly indoctrinate me against him. I acknowledge that he cannot control his symptoms, but it's nevertheless damaging to my views of the deceased Candidate that we all appreciated so dearly.

"I'm sorry, Florence. I know you liked Snow, but these are just my opinions. I'm not encouraging you to change yours."

I sigh. "I'm not blaming you for anything" — Calums eyes switch around — "I'm really not. But maybe you should, instead of expressing your stone-cold and detached views on someone, either keep it to yourself or learn to appreciate what you were given." The form in which my words soar out makes me sound like a cruel and insensitive being, and a bit like Mrs. Curtis, but he needs to hear it, regardless if it's harmful or not.

"I, um...I think I'm going to go now," Calum suggests, slowly sliding off of our boulder. He steals one last glance at me, perhaps to collect our words and provide me with closure, before turning his back completely and trudging away.

"It needed to be said," I amend, not sure if Calum will be able to hear. For someone who absolutely scorns excuses, they would seem to be all I'm saying now.

"I understand, Florence," Calum responds, marking his defeat and my victory, but I can't help but feel a twang of regret.

~~~~~

"Where's Peter?"

 _Well that_ does _seem to be the most frequently asked question, right?_

Calum and I sit down on the nearest log together, tapping our feet in anticipation in a synchronized fashion, though purely on accident; at least that's my belief. Calum probably has a game he enjoys playing, trying to match the actions of others to keep his mind busy.

He breaths out slowly, trying his best to reserve his energy.

Recently, Calum's health has diminished to the point where he coughs between every sentence and can barely move. Every time I try to feed him the sandwiches packed in his bag, he spits it back out, or throws it up entirely, much to my displeasure. However, I've been fortunate enough to escape his projectile vomit from splashing my clothing.

"You know, I think he really likes you, cares about you, more accurately. I don't suppose he's one for liking people," Calum comments, grinning slightly. "Want to know how I figured it out?"

I nod slowly, half in shock and half in disbelief, pondering how he could have concluded such an audacious theory in the short time that transpired in between me reading the poems and resting on a tube of wood. "I'll be glad to disprove your theories," I drawl as I watch Peter emerge from the building with Giuseppe stuffed in his waistband.

"Dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and oxytocin are the chemicals for happiness and other such things, but an excessive amount of any of them can cause paranoia, schizophrenia, or insanity. However, I doubt the effects were quite as bad, considering his state.

"I merely assumed that his recent outburst was cause for such conclusions. He's been happier lately. All of this is also just a possibility, of course. Probably impossible, but you know me — so doubtful. My theory, however, is that the Community mimicked the effects of an overdose on these chemicals as an 'aha' to us, as a joke."

My eyes drift over to Peter, spinning around hysterically, Giuseppe tightly clutched in his hands. He sure looks like he's enjoying himself over there.

"Dopamine is the happy chemical. Simple things such as eating a cookie could boost your levels. I do believe you like cookies, right? Lots of people like cookies."

I smile internally at his dubious comment, though, in truth, it's quite adorable to see him so full of helpful words, not harmful ones.

"Anyway, procrastination and self-doubt are linked with low levels of the dopamine chemical. I don't suppose his dopamine dosages were particularly high, considering the only way to make contact with Peter Sparrow is to have him tear himself apart."

Calum deduces things rapidly, way quicker than anything I've ever seen. He takes the wildest changes in Peter's personality and links them to outrageous accusations.

Sometimes it's hard to understand him, with his accelerated speech, always trying to finish his sentence, though it looks as though he's struggling to bring his point across, but whenever I catch what he's saying, which is, fortunately, most of the time, it's absolutely brilliant.

"Serotonin levels increase when someone feels important and decrease in the occurrence of depression or absence of a special person, or people in general. I doubt those with social phobia, including myself, have the same effect that regular people do. However, for those who have it, longing for a friend to reassure you could be cause for serotonin decreasing."

Social phobia? I taught myself about it by poring over the webpages dedicated to diagnosing and informing people who suspected the growth of the terrible disorder. I exhibited a few of the traits, frightening me enough to slam the laptop closed and try to forget about it, though it was awfully difficult to do so.

"I have a fun fact, though it's not that fun — it's somewhat intimidating. Abnormally high levels of serotonin in the womb will cause the child to be somewhat numb to its calming effects, and that's the leading cause of psychopaths."

My brow furrows in confusion. Why is he telling me this? I don't know much about psychopathy, but I wouldn't start with the causes, rather the synopsis of the condition.

"Oxytocin is released during, well... I doubt you did any of that stuff." Worry dances across Calum's face and I giggle at the mature content he's so afraid of. "But when we look at dogs, they get the same rush of oxytocin that we do when we see them."

I giggle. At the fairs at school, a whole herd of dogs marched around the field, just waiting for a kid's sticky hands to make contact with their varying fur types. I remember those times well, and hope to never forget them — I really love animals.

"Endorphins are released in response to alleviate the traumatic experiences of depression and anxious tendencies. Laughter can increase endorphin levels and it acts as a sedative.

"So there you have it."

Through Calum's spiel of uninterruptable ideas, I didn't dare interject, for I knew he wouldn't pause to answer my questions, or even think about them. I figure he's that way with talking.

Now it's my turn. "So, what, did he fall into a romantic comedy with the dome all the sudden?" I finally say, recognizing that he's finished.

"Florence." Calum's eyes are stern and serious. "He got worse after the time I left you two alone. So the most logical—"

"Shut up."

"What?"

"I said shut up."

He shifts uncomfortably as tears spring to my eyes. I reach up to wipe them, pleading for Peter to keep turning and whirling quickly enough to blur his vision and shield him from this.

"I'm sorry, Florence. I shouldn't have invaded your privacy like that. I can be oblivious to emotions. But I think you helped Peter in a way that I can't even describe."

Did I hurt his feelings? Well I don't really care. I've always hated being confronted with pressing matters, primarily after the heated games of Truth or Dare, where my friends would ask me about any school crushes. I would always respond with a negative answer and they would taunt me, because they thought I was hiding it. With grade schoolers, it's you've admitted it, or you're lying.

"It's okay." That seems to be my response for everything ever since I can remember. I let people off the hook for their mistakes by simply telling them that I'm all right — which is an expectation, not necessarily a truth.

Someday, I hope I will be able to have the courage not to say, "It's okay," but, "I'm okay."

"Can we just...not talk about this anymore?" I sincerely plead.

Calum nods in understanding, and I feel a burden being lifted off of my chest. It's wonderful how he seems to know just what to do, even after messing up. "I don't want to hurt you. Or Peter, for that matter. I was just inquiring."

"You don't need to apologize, Calum. I'm okay, really. And you should be, too. There's no point in worrying about something that's already resolved."

I can tell my attempt at reassurance sparked a cringing feeling in him, but he's always been better at saying sorry than I have, so I decide to drop it and hope he isn't affected as much as is noticeable.

"What a helpful affirmation," Calum responds,removing himself from the log and walking away, past Peter, past the building,past my unintended judgement. Past all those things his abhorrence loves to play with.

 


	7. Chess

_Chess is a game of strategy, and that is the most_

_important aspect to recognize while playing._  
Chess is tricky. You will need to be absolutely  
focused in order to stand a sliver of a chance  
against your opponent. While you may think  
you have won, your adversary could have a  
well-thought out move up his sleeve. Don't  
underestimate their power.

 _-_ Guide to Chess _, page 1_

_~~~~~_

Peter screams at night.

I don't know how long it's been going on, and I don't think I would be able to hold my lunch if I found out, but I just started noticing it now that I lie awake every night, just looking at the sky, when sleep is a faster runner than I am.

It must hurt his throat tremendously, like someone stuck duct tape to the back of his mouth and ripped it off over and over again. I suppose that explains why his voice has been raspier than it was when I first met him. I had thought it sounded nice, even with the minuscule pinch of concern circling around my head, but now, it's the mark of a lack of sleep, of an unhealthy beginning to something destructive.

Peter loses so much from whatever it is that he's doing, whether it's screaming, not eating, or something entirely apart from that. Whenever I look at him, it's as if I'm witnessing a ghost, and it's not just any ghost. It's his, and it's even more harrowing than an anonymous soul, because Peter is my friend, or at least he used to be, though he won't ever admit it.

There's something different about the relationship between Peter and me, something that is entirely opposite to what I have with Calum. With Calum, I always retain the firm belief that he will get better, that there is always another day for him to change, for him to find something that makes his time worthwhile. But with Peter...there's something off, something that I hate, but I cannot fix. With him, I don't tend to care as much. Well, that's not exactly how I'd put it, but it sure seems that way. I do care, but the empathy only lives inside my mind.

When he cannot sleep, I do not come over to him and stay until he falls into a resting state. When he does not eat, I do not offer him food, some of which is my own. When he sits in the corner to rock back and forth like he does often, presumably to escape his hallucinations, I do not walk over and ask if he is okay. I don't do _anything_. I just stand there and hope he's all right, like someone poking their distraught friend with a stick from afar to comfort them. The point being it doesn't fix their problems.

So, instead of doing something, instead of marching right over to Peter and assisting him, I sit there and listen to his wails, even if they strain my ears with the fury of a thousand rhinoceroses, because I know it hurts him more, yet I have nothing for him. I only possess my indifference.

I lose as much sleep as Peter does, but I don't seem to react any differently; I never do, apparently. My eyes aren't as dark as his, but the toll his yelling took on us is about the same, if I'm allowed to say so.

But then again, my throat doesn't take well to duct tape.

~~~~~

"How long do you think it would take to churn butter?"

I whip around to face a teenage girl posing inquisitively as she twirls a strand of her jet black hair around her long, bony finger, so, of course, I gasp in surprise.

According to the rules of the Evaluation, only the four Candidates of the current year are allowed inside the Dome. That does not warrant substitutions when one of them dies. Technically, this person shouldn't be here under any circumstances.

"A couple years ago, Snow told me it would take a few hours, but I know for a fact that the people on the cartoon station of the television state otherwise."

If the girl hadn't had my full attention before, she does now, pulling me into her grasp by simply speaking one name, a name that haunts me in my dreams.

"Who are you?"

"Chesslyn Arwen Ryker," the mysterious figure replies, smiling at her own inflection. "You might need to know that in case you'll be the one digging my grave pretty soon."

I stare at her, dumbfounded.

"But you can call me Chess," she finishes to break the silence.

"How did you get in here?"

"I asked a question first. You're lucky I even told you my name. Mostly, it was because I couldn't pass up the opportunity to remind you of the fact that I'll probably be dead in a few days, judging from where I am, but you're still in my debt, Florence Mayfield."

My stomach spikes, though I shouldn't be that concerned; everyone I've met in the past week has known everything about me, down to the last detail. They probably even know what cereal I last ate.

"How do you know my name?" I choose to ignore her previous demand for an answer to advance my own motives.

I already have a guess as to how she obtained the information, but I decide to test her anyway. She could prove or disprove my theory and lend me more knowledge about the Community's schemes.

"Oh, hush." Chess rolls her eyes and I watch as her tongue moves over her teeth in an act of frustration with my abundance of inquiries. "I thought you'd want to know exactly how I got into this place, but if you want to know things that have already been proclaimed, so be it."

"Then tell me," I demand, locking my hands onto my hips in anticipation.

"I was just getting to that." Chess scowls, growing more and more impatient by the second, though I don't see what I've done wrong.

"Stop being so rude." Finally, I'm taking control.

Chess glares at me, clearing her through before continuing. "Anyway, word on the street is that I was supposed to be the fourth Candidate if Snow hadn't been chosen. It's called a Subordinate.

"You know the Community — they have everything mapped out on pounds upon pounds of paper stacks. It's all perfect, too. They concluded that I would prove useful once 'the third fatality had been administered', whatever that means. I assume that would be Snow, seeing as there are only supposed to be four people here, and, well..."

This year must be a fluke. The Evaluation experiment is either very unimportant or crucial to the Community's advances in the scientific field. Why else would they replace Snow with someone else?

Completely interrupting our conversation with something irrelevant, I exclaim, "I think I know you from somewhere!"

Chess lifts an eyebrow, challenging me. "That was probably my brother, Ezra," she clarifies. "I think he told me about you. He was drunk when you two met, but I think he left an impact on you." She chuckles, recalling his story of me. "He really shouldn't have been intoxicated, though. He's only seventeen."

Suddenly, it clicks into place. They have the same black hair, the same grey eyes, the same small nose that curls to the sky at the end (relatively similar to mine), and the same sharp jawline. Chess' cheekbones are a bit more accentuated (if I didn't know better, I would say they could cut granite), but the familiarity is uncanny — shocking, really. I can't believe I didn't recognize it earlier.

"If it's only you here, they would've sent two more Subordinates, so you must have friends somewhere," Chess proclaims.

 _Friends_. I wouldn't describe them quite the way Chess did. I think of Calum and Peter as essentials, though mutually. I need Calum, and Calum needs me. I need Peter, and Peter needs me. We all need each other. We are each other's lifelines. We breathe when all of us breathe. But sure, I'll call them friends.

"I'd like to meet them. See whom I'm up against to become the alpha. It's always nice to scout out your enemies, wouldn't you agree?"

Now it's my turn to raise an eyebrow accusingly. "Sure, yeah, I'll take you to them, but be warned; Peter's the biggest jerk you'll ever meet, while Calum is a precious creature who won't place a finger on you, but that's mostly because he's scared to."

Chess licks her lips in satisfaction, clapping her hands to signify her readiness to proceed. "I'm game for that."

~~~~~

I envy Chess' bountiful energy. While I'm dragging my feet along with the last ounce of energy I contain, she's skipping. _Skipping_. Who the heck skips in sand, or in the clutch of these dangerous times? Not me, that's for sure.

I had only begun my walk beyond the campsite, so the building flashes into view fairly soon after we start our journey back.

Calum hobbles over to me as quickly as he can — though I constantly advise him not to (it's tiresome) — but halts, confused at the new face smirking before him. "Who's this?"

"She's—"

"I'm Chess," the newbie interjects, extending a soft hand for Calum to shake. Her eyes twinkle, obviously intrigued. "Well aren't you a fine specimen of what I'd call...my next bestie?" I had expected something different.

Calum's face reddens with embarrassment, at a loss for words. He gulps, throwing me pleading eye signals. "Florence..." he whispers.

"How about I introduce you to Peter?"

"I'm up for that," Chess replies, showcasing a winning smile against her pale skin.

I take her by the hand, pulling her away from a tomato-faced Calum. She winks at him from over her shoulder, causing him to turn an even brighter shade of red.

"The Community did a good job with that one," Chess comments, eyes widening in excitement.

I block her from moving any farther by cementing my body in front. "Can you shut up for just one minute, or would that be too much to ask?"

The way she's flirting with Calum isn't the problem as much as the fact that she's making him surpassingly uncomfortable. I've spent my time here working with all of my power to ease Calum of his debilitating anxiety, but Chess is waltzing right in and ruining it all. She doesn't have the authority to toy with his insecurities. He's had enough of that already.

After a few seconds of unnerving silence, Chess finally speaks, uncertainty adhering to her tone. "So...you said I could meet Peter?"

"I know your attitude is a bit...full," I start, my voice wavering. "but I need to remind you to be careful around Peter. His head's battling with him right now and he can be dangerous." I gesture to my scar below my right eye, my contact sparking the unforgettable memories. "He gave me this."

Chess draws in her breath, imagining the pain, as humans feel the urge to do. "I'll be fine." She sounds so confident, but I can tell she's exploding with fear.

Giving her a steady nod, we venture into the building to face the worst. Surprisingly, Peter merely rests upon the couch, an apple gripped tightly in his hand.

He stops when he sees us, his fruit half way to his mouth with his lips parted. "So I see you brought a friend."

Chess looks at me, confused. "I thought he was supposed to be ruthless," she mouths, but I shake my head to call her off.

"Peter, this is Chess. Chess, this is Peter. She's, uh, what's it called?"

"A Subordinate," she resolves, wiping her sweaty palms on her pants and hoping the moisture dissolves before she has to shake any hands.

"Ah, yes... Those people. I've heard about them, so I don't need to be reminded of all those pointless things that you constantly drone on about, Florence. You can skip the boring speech about love and loss while meeting this 'Subordinate'. I'm tired."

Chess glances at me, not fully comprehending Peter's caustic behavior until now, but I counter with a slight sneer, muttering, "I told you so."

Suddenly, an epiphany strikes me right in the head. Chess' aura of jurisdiction was ever present until she met Peter. Now, his sarcasm has silenced her. I can get used to this Sparrow kid, but I'm not ready for Chess. However, the problem is now solved.

"Florence, go bring Calum in here. I think I have some crackers to feast upon for dinner. I probably have enough for Chess if she doesn't have any."

Only a minute ago, Peter met Chess, but he's now acting kinder to her than he does to me, and I've known him for longer. I've wept in his arms, he's quivered in mine, and yet, his food is offered to a complete stranger before his concerns for me reach even farther.

I storm off to find Calum and bring him inside for supper, knowing he'll appease me and protect me against Peter Sparrow's words with his own, leaving Chess helpless in the doorway with her new acquaintance.

~~~~~

"So how do you like Chess?"

At the moment, Peter and Chess are playing a board game they managed to pull out of one of the cupboards of the lobby — I have no idea why it was there. Peter rolls the dice, ending up with a four, but he moves his marker an extra two spaces. Chess punches Peter on the shoulder once realizing his cheating move, then proceeding to throw the pieces at him in response to his infidelity.

"She's quite flirtatious," Calum confesses, blushing as he glances down at his shoes to hide the burning of his cheeks.

"If she's making you uneasy, please tell me. I'll get her to stop." I undertake the task of looking him in the eyes, but he averts his gaze.

"It's fine, Florence."

"I know it's not, Calum. You're my responsibility."

"It's not your job to take care of me!" Calum shouts, a little too loudly.

Chess and Peter look up from their game, but turn their attention back to finishing once they see Calum's lachrymose composure.

My face falls at his comment. I've worked so hard to keep him together, pulling him back to reality when he was slipping, always making sure he has enough food, calming him when he cries. I think of myself as his constant. I'll always be there for him. Calum is my responsibility, without a doubt.

"I'm not a child," Calum breathes, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes water, tears filling them like a pool of melting candle wax.

"I know." I take his hand, rubbing my thumb across it, studying the texture of every vein, every line, every wrinkle creasing his fingers. "In fact, I know too much. I know how you shake when you're scared, when the world is too broken to fix. I know how you never scream when you're lost; you contain it and hope the aching feeling goes away. I know how you never ask for things, because you were raised to accept what you were given. Trust me, _I know_."

Instead of breaking down and sobbing like I suspected, Calum only stands there, a blank expression crossing his face. It isn't crumpled, nor jubilant in manner. He appears dull, like all of the emotion has been sucked out of his life.

"But how could you know?" The shivering of Calum's voice climaxes, perpetuating the oscillation of his visage. "I don't want you to know, Florence."

I can't take it back. I can't act as though I'm oblivious to the fact that my best friend is slowly rotting from the inside out. I have to face the reality, however brutal. It's what's best for Calum. I won't back away from that.

"Knowledge is terrifying, in truth," I admit, squeezing down on Calum's hand, flourishing my words with an ordinary nod, "but I just can't stay away."

"Florence..." he says, his lips parting. "Thank you."

A few hours later, Calum starts coughing up blood.

~~~~~

The air is still, with the sun having dipped below the horizon a while earlier. The clouds have retreated from the sky, leaving a calm aura around our campsite. There are no animals to be seen, as usual, no birds to wake us from our sleep. But that isn't the origin of my fear.

Calum lies still, if only for a moment. He's finally found peace with his current position, but soon, he is discontent.

Sleep is hard to come by for the boy, requiring him to toss and turn for hours on end until he matches his body's demands. Dreaming is pricey, costing hundreds of minutes to simply settle down and close his eyes.

Something tickles the back of Calum's throat and he shifts to accommodate its needs, clicking on his flashlight to obtain a more adequate view of his work. He coughs quite severely, causing Peter to stir beside him.

I'm off with Chess, acting as a guard to prevent anything fishy from occurring. So far, that's going swimmingly, with Chess masquerading as a loyal Subordinate. However, I know nothing of what's transpiring, as I had dozed off many hours before.

Curling his hand around his jacket sleeve to resume his activities of laboring to fall into the trance of sleep, Calum notices a sticky, wet feeling left behind. Lifting his weight from the ground, he directs the bright beam of his flashlight to his arm to find something he never considered.

"Florence!" Calum shrieks, his body rewarding him with more of the dark red liquid spurting from his mouth. "Florence, wake up!"

My eyes snap open upon granting Calum's agonized wails access to flow into my ears. I throw back my blanket, grab my bag in a hurry, and rush to where I last left him, just inside the building.

"Calum, what is it?" I gasp, my feet skidding on the slippery floors of the building and clogging the grooves of my shoe with stray sand.

In response, Calum solely lifts his hand to reveal blood spotting his skin, the action drowning us in an unwanted grim ambience. "Hemoptysis."

I'm no science or medical expert, but, from what I can tell, I surmise it means the victim coughs up blood, which can be fatal if the intensity escalates.

By some miracle, Peter is still sleeping soundly. I caught a glimpse of Chess moving beside me, but she must've not cared about the pressing matter at hand. Calum called for me, not her, after all.

Shadowy circles border Calum's eyes from a lack of rest, making the rest of his face appear hollow. His cheekbones are sharpened from the absence of proper nutrition, cutting sharply in a line from his ear to next to his nose. He looks like something of my worst dreams, a creature that pursues me to the ends of the earth without pausing.

"Do you need a tissue?" I offer, sorting through the contents of my messenger bag and procuring one, though it's not very helpful to Calum; the mere thin sheet of papery material won't end his cruel suffering, only absorb it and mock him.

Calum nods, leisurely accepting the tissue from my hand, coughing once into it and wiping his lips to be devoid of stray blood. "Thank you."

"Yeah, no problem," I reply calmly, rubbing his back. I notice he's shaking, but it's not like the usual way.

Most of the time, Calum's whole body quakes, but it's not as severe, almost like a chilling vibration. But now, it's like a shiver running throughout all of him, every nerve, every patch of skin, every bone clacking against each other. He's tremendously cold, but even a blanket can't solve his issue. All we can do is wait.

"You should lie down," I suggest, assisting him in his endeavor of gradually lowering himself to the ground.

Calum resembles a doll, an immobilized figure stimulated by tackling the task of keeping its bright eyes open and pointed towards the sky. It's clear he doesn't wish to relax, and I can't blame him. His nightmares are haunting and his reality is dark, but blood pollutes his will to choose anything. His consciousness is forfeited to a plague — sleep and awareness are unimportant, nonexistent even.

"Florence, will you stay until I stop shaking? The coughing might return, too," Calum inquires, almost like he's frightened to ask anything of me, like I've done enough, when, in fact, I can never fix even a fraction of him.

"Of course." I prop my head up on his chest, listening to the rhythmic pulse of Calum's heartbeat as it thumps rapidly, filling my ear with an avid march, however hebetudinous.

I stay with him until the trembling of his body ceases and his chest flutters like the wings of a bird flying to the sky to be free, to be safe.

~~~~~

Chess is gone.

The blanket usually mounted upon the sand is thrown back in a hurry, appearing as though Chess was in a state of euphoric readiness when she tossed it out of her path.

Whipping my head around, I find Calum and Peter still in sleeping mode, Peter snoring heavily, while Calum rests peacefully, his arm tucked to his chest.

If everyone was asleep, then no one could've seen Chess leave. She could be long gone by now, feeding the Community information about our lives — information that I had presumed the Community didn't know until now, rendering them omnipotent against us.

I rise, my eyes scouring the campsite to track down the runaway Subordinate. No trace of her is present, her footprints washed away by a gust of infiltrating wind that scattered the grains of sand across the area.

Growing nearer and nearer to the building, my hands fly to the inside of my jacket, reaching steadily towards the knife tucked away inside. I remove it carefully, lifting it to my face and observing as my breath clouds it like a gloomy day in April, packed with the watchful fog.

The dagger feels peculiar in my grasp, with the condensed handle curving unevenly to the dips, plains, and mountains of my hand. The blade portion of it is adorned with asymmetrical, protruding edges to slice through materials more efficiently.

Perhaps it's the general texture of the knife that blankets me in uneasiness, or maybe it's the owner from which it came. Peter awarded me the contraption to use if I ever found myself in danger, but this occasion seems unfit for justification. It's the same object he wielded when we first met, when he pressed it against my neck in an attempt to commit me to a submissive nature. It doesn't seem right.

I lower the knife to my side, traipsing along until I halt in front of the illuminated doorway of the building, unsure of what I will find.

However, what is presented before me isn't scandalous, nor backbiting, not even a shocking betrayal. It's simply Chess, crouched down so that her head is tipped over the floor, her back arched to more properly complete her task in which she is wholly occupied.

Dispersed in front of her is a routine container of medicine, seven boxes labeled with each day of the week. Stowed away inside, a pill is placed between the clear plastic walls of the pod.

A pile of candy is stacked in Chess' hands, ranging from gumdrops to jawbreakers, and everything in between. Some are wrapped, while some are left to be promptly consumed without any effort. Sugar attaches itself to some of the sweets, creating the most pleasant aura of joy in one's mouth.

I've only tasted candy a few times. It's expensive, especially where I come from. Every now and then, such as birthdays and holidays, I would get a share of the delicious treats, but I usually only received one piece, much to my dismay.

The fact that Chess has a stockpile so easily accessible, with loads of variety dotting the stash, is amazing to me. Yes, the Lumen Province is very wealthy, but the Citizens' decadence does not stretch to candy as much as it does other items.

Chess cautiously snaps open the lids for each day, dropping a confectionary inside after close deliberation. After doing so, she happily shuts the top with her pointer finger, moving on to the next section.

I wait for her to decide the treat for Saturday, her finger poised on her lips as she stares down at the remaining pieces, before speaking. "That's a nice thing you're doing there."

Chess looks up, perplexed. "Florence!" She scrambles to adjust her body in front of her work so that I cannot see it.

"I'm not mad!" I laugh, moving to obtain a better view of her progress.

Shimmering treats line the box in an orderly fashion, differing between size, shape, color, and other factors that make each and every one so unique. I'm sure Calum will love them, if, of course, the medicine is his.

"I was just looking through Calum's bag, trying to figure out if he had anything useful to help any of us, but I figured it'd be considerate to do something swell for him for a change."

My suspicions have been confirmed. The meds are for Calum, probably to alleviate his anxiety that I've only heard briefly about through our conversations perched atop the boulder while Peter is losing his wits.

During my thorough research of anxiety disorder, I came across an article on antidepressants that informed me of their use for anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and obsessive compulsive disorder, just to name a few.

"May I help?" I offer sheepishly, sliding the dagger back into my jacket slowly.

Chess' eyes gleam, only faltering when she notices the knife gradually returning to my clothing. "I've already finished putting in the candy, but if you have any other ideas, sure; I'd be glad to have you assist."

"I was thinking I could write notes for him to find, but place them under the candy and pills so that he'll have to be properly taken care of before he can continue with his day."

Chess springs to her feet, her face injected with fervor. "That's a fantastic idea! I've always loved brief — but sincere — notes when I'm feeling down."

Her words strike me as jubilant, though containing a darker undertone. Chess always seems so...full of energy, but she might have struggled with something much more serious than her jocular personality. Did any of her friends casually slip her notes in her antidepressants in the past? Is that why she's doing it for Calum now?

I realize that I should never ask someone about their illnesses, so I refrain from doing so, but Chess catches the curiosity swimming in my eyes, tilting her lips halfway upward.

"Depression, if that's what you were wondering," Chess finally says, breaking the silence. "I choose not to reflect on it. It's really hard to tell people on most occasions."

I draw in my breath, sympathy filling the entirety of my body and turning it to a free-moving liquid.

I am aware of the effects of depression: lack of interest in previously enjoyable activities, a chronic feeling of sadness that cannot be resolved, a casting away of all excitement, even when it's something like Halloween, which I prepare for in September. It's extremely dangerous and self-destructive, and not worth anyone's time.

"I can tell you're not going to rest until you find answers, Florence," Chess cuts in. "I think I'll make an exception for you."

_Was I really that obvious? Oh no...I should not have done that._

"I'm not quite sure how I beat it... These kinds of things are tricky to manage and track. I think something just finally snapped, though. I just looked at myself in the mirror, my skin only thinly layering my bones from loss of appetite and an unusual decrease in weight (which is also a side effect), and thought, 'I'm beautiful just the way I am. No one can take my light away. Not the people at school, not society, and definitely not me.'"

Hearing Chess' burdensome words fill my ears is like hearing a sweet-sounding melody suddenly struck by an automobile. Her tone is always so mellifluous, complementing the world around her as it dances through her hair, but now, it's screeching as she raises her previous memories from the dead.

"It helped." Chess' voice breaks off, her eyes chasing the lines on the floor so she won't have to meet my helpless gaze. "But it's not that simple anyway. It can be indomitable, so..."

Silence fills the empty space in the room, circling around us and toying with our mental cohesion. I don't like it at all.

"So about those notes..." Chess finally reminds me, lifting us from our prior trance of anxious waiting.

"Right, yeah." I sort through the contents of my bag, pulling out a single sheet of paper, wrinkled from intemperate folding and unfolding. I smooth it out across the floor, miniscule bits of sand pressing into the material.

Chess fervidly seizes the paper, tearing it into small chunks to fit inside the medicine container. She loots her messenger bag, procuring a dulled, yellow pencil to mark upon it and make Calum's day a bit brighter, unlike the writing utensil she possesses in her hand.

Once seven pieces have been ripped to the adequate size, I detect an instrument of my own, this time a pen, practically leaking with dark blue ink.

While I may have sent my head fleeing from the exploding ideas plundering my orderly thought process, when I lift my pen to the paper, my designs drip out of my mindset like a broken test tube leaning on its side.

My face contorts in frustration, shifting slightly as if it will provide me with a fresher approach, instead of one hazy with trite.

On the tiny scrap of paper, I scribe the day of the week at random, slashing a line directly under an enlarged form of the word, Friday, though it happens to be today's date. I write hastily so as to not lose track of my thought.

Suddenly, my back straightens as an image emerges from the deepest part of my mind, almost striking me in the face with its brilliance.

To be quite fair, the concept itself isn't so extraordinary, but the fact that I could formulate something, at least, is a major achievement to me.

"Take pride not in the fact that you have succeeded in life, but the fact that you have succeeded in perpetuating life," I write, a quote I know to be from Calum's favorite author, Elikai Amin, after he burbled about his literary works one day.

Chess peers over at my quotes, raising her eyebrows, clearly impressed — or merely satisfied. "That's a nice one, Florence."

My face grows red with Chess' flattery, glancing down at my eminent quote scrawled across the page. "What does yours look like?"

I avert my vision towards Chess' paper, hers regarding Monday. "Hey, you! I know life can get really hard, but you can make it through this. We love you!" hers says.

I smile at the encouraging words. Even if they're meant for Calum, they leave a noticeable mark on me, as well.

"It's the day of the moon, so I thought it would be intriguing to start with Monday," Chess comments. It seems of no importance whatsoever that she orders them — we'll get through all the days one way or another — but it appeases her.

"How about I take Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and you can take Saturday and Sunday?" Chess suggests, dividing the remaining paper scraps between us.

"Sure, sounds good."

I'm quite thankful that she took the extra piece; I'm not sure how much longer I can go spewing out quotes that don't come to me very easily.

I start off by labeling both of my scraps with the days I was assigned by Chess, who is now working rapidly to complete her job, but after that, my mind goes blank, devoid of all cognition.

While it is simpler to go for the mainstream approach of encouraging words to no one in particular, used for a neutral advance, Calum doesn't deserve something so careless, especially not from me.

Feeling the last shreds of hope vanish from my mind, I stare at the sheet of paper, completely and utterly lost. Nothing works its way inside to assist in my laboring task.

Until a few seconds later.

Connecting my pen to the already faded piece of paper, I write, in my neatest handwriting, "No matter how hard it gets, remember that you're still alive, and that's the only thing you can ask of yourself."

I push the completed note aside, stacking it on top of Chess' already finished pile, containing phrases such as, "You only fail when you decide trying isn't worthwhile," and, "This is only one battle. You might lose one, but a fresh opportunity still awaits," along with, "It's okay if no one believes in you. It only makes it ten times better when you tell them that you believe in yourself."

Gathering bits of information from Chess' quotes, I formulate one of my own in my head, marking the paper with a tiny dot before beginning. "I want you to redeem yourself in the only way you can: show the world that you are not worthless. You do not require their approval, only their envy," I draft, sighing as I slam the last piece of the puzzle down on the stack.

"I'm done," I announce, opening each separate box and distributing the notes among them accordingly, shutting them with a click when the task has been ended.

Squealing marginally, Chess returns Calum's medicine container to his messenger bag, taking particular notice to its original place — in between a package of bandages and a disinfecting spray bottle and next to the rest of his antidepressants.

"Let's hide behind the couch and wait for Calum to find his presents," Chess advocates, anticipation lighting up her whole face as she scurries to fling herself behind the furniture item, disappearing from sight.

I follow, maneuvering my feet to avoid the remnants of shattered glass and dust covering the floor. Using the back of the couch for support, I lower myself down to the ground, peeking out from the side to gain a view of the doorway.

Peter wanders by, though not taking the time to inquire about our whereabouts. He seems particularly unbalanced today, his legs punching furiously into the ground to keep him stabilized. I suppose it's for the better that we don't render assistance; if we help Peter, Calum could overhear and throw off our whole plan.

Chess fishes out a conveniently placed package of cards from her messenger bag, opening the box and dumping each piece out onto the floor.

The cards lie scattered in a fan formation, ranging from clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades, red, and black, with only one of a kind to be played.

"What do you want to play?" Chess inquires, holding up the empty box for me to examine while I conclude.

"I don't know many card games," I admit, feeling heat rise to my cheeks as I throw my vision to the floor, where the cards still lie.

"That's okay." Chess smiles, cupping her hand around the pile of cards to gather them, then proceeding to smack their edges to form quite a perfect, procrustean shape. "I can teach you some. My favorite is called Garbage."

I cock my eyebrow in confusion. What kind of name is Garbage for a game that's supposed to intrigue the players?

Chess passes out ten cards for me and ten cards for her, face down, arranging them in an array of two rows, with five per row, restoring the leftover objects to the middle. "Basically, you take a card from the stockpile and match it with the corresponding spot on your board. Say I drew a three; I would find the third place and flip it over, putting the earlier card down, facing upward, thus beginning my adventure on finding the spot of the number on the card.

"Then I continue to do that for the cards until I reach a dead end. If I do so without completely turning over my pieces, I put the last card in the middle, next to the deck, and proclaim, 'Garbage!'"

It seems simple enough, though repetitious. Something about it, however, is slightly fascinating. Maybe it's the low-key gaiety for Calum's daily trek through the area, or maybe I'm excited for the ebullience of turning over the cards and not knowing what to expect.

Just as I nod, drawing a paper rectangle of fun from the deck, a rustling noise echoes against the walls, signaling a halt to our game. Chess and I exchange jubilant glances as she hurries to collect her package to clean up our mess.

Calum leans a hand on the doorframe, steadying himself as he rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, then sliding on his glasses to fit the bridge of his nose. Yawning, he slaps his phalanges to his mouth to cover it, though he should feel comfortable in the belief that no one is around to spy on him, that he can do whatever he pleases, yet he doesn't.

"It's working," I mouth to Chess, who responds with a curt smile, baring her shiny, white teeth.

Calum pulls his feet along, crouching down to pull back the flap of his messenger bag and find whatever it is he's searching for — hopefully, it's his medicine container. His hand fumbles around a bit inside, but he eventually produces the desired object. Squinting, he examines the specimen clutched in his fingers, confused by the sudden shift in its features.

Agitation blooms in my stomach, and all I want is for Calum to open to today's date, 12 March, and find my hidden note and yellow gumdrop. I grow more and more anxious by the second as times seems to slow. The only two things in the world are me and Calum, maybe even his medicine.

Taking a deep breath, Calum conscientiously pries open the lid to the Friday box, not sure what to discover. What he does uncover, however, isn't appalling in the slightest, with no ill-will and no mischievous intentions. Calum furrows his brow at the image waiting before him — the candy and note are just sitting to be received with a joyful demeanor — but he doesn't relax at first.

"What's he doing?" Chess asks, squinting her eyes.

"I think he's crying..."

Signs of tears are marked upon Calum's face as he removes the candy from the box to read the note. A sad smile brings color to his face, though his cheeks tell a different story, one of embarrassment and delight swirling together to create red. His fingers probe the paper, smoothing it over to be free of the plaguing wrinkles. Calum then slips it into the pocket of his pants, patting it gently as if to keep it safe.

Chess and I exchange ebullient looks, our eyes reflecting the same emotion as one another. "He's saving it for later!" Chess clarifies, and I nod, delighted.

Finally, after staring at the daunting pill in front of him for a few seconds, hesitation clouding his visage, Calum tosses the pill down his throat, cringing at the bitter taste. He quickly pops the treat through his lips to coat the walls of his mouth with sour and sweet textures and flavors, forgetting the putrid threats of his antidepressants.

In my own opinion, however jaded my judgement is, it always warms my heart to see people taking their medication. It shows that they overcame the biggest obstacle of their day: getting out of bed.

Calum flicks his eyes across the room in a desperate hope for someone to be there, someone for him to thank. Chess and I are hidden from view. So he smooths the writing on his medication box, preserving his happiness with a small smile.

And that's all I need.

~~~~~

"I already told you, Florence! I don't know anything!" Chess informs me, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

"You were inside the Community building for longer than I was, considering you arrived here only yesterday, and I know for a fact that you're not from the Incipiens Province. If you really are Snow's friend, you're from Lumen."

Calum and Peter are gradually getting worse, and after the excursion of last night, I thought it an appropriate time to interrogate Ms. Chesslyn Arwen Ryker. She's been living inside the Community building in Incipiens for over two weeks now, so she must be useful to the Community, meaning she most likely has intelligence to assist us.

"How dare I travel? What an abomination I am!" Chess quips.

"Please, Chess," I plead. "It's okay if you don't know anything, but if you do, it's of utmost importance that you share with me. As you can see" — I nod to signal her to take a quick look at Peter, who's clawing his wrists with his fingernails — "my friends aren't doing so well. This could save their life."

Silence fills the room, curling into every nook and cranny of the furniture, walls, and windows.

Finally, I receive a reply. "I don't have anything that they told me literally, but I might have a guess at their motives. It might ease your worry." Chess shrugs. "I'm quite the investigator, as you can see."

Scenarios fly through my head of what Chess is about to tell me. Are Calum and Peter's lives in danger, or is it the exact opposite? My fellow Candidates might be gravely ill, but maybe it's just that; maybe I won't have to be alone.

"It's my belief that you're perfectly fine, yes? Peter and Calum are wacked up in the head, and Snow is dead as a doornail, but you seem to be braving it." Remorse is absent from Chess' words. She professes to be Snow's old friend from Lumen, but she describes Snow's death with a commonplace simile. Is she as close to my deceased comrade as she says she is?

"I honestly don't know why I'm not already dead or injured," I confess, scratching a few hairs out of my tight bun.

"But that wasn't what I was asking, now was it? Your friends may be survivors of the Evaluation."

My heart skips a beat when Chess mentions the word "survivor". All of my progress up to this point has been keeping Calum and Peter comfortable, though fighting with all of my strength to preserve their lives.

"Calum's body is failing, and Peter's mind is failing, but the whole point of the Evaluation is to experiment, not murder. It isn't penance for our war; it's a constant reminder that the Community is making advancements in technology to reintroduce our old inventions once again. Therefore, killing off their assets is pointless, a rookie mistake. Besides, if the Citizens found out about that, they would not be so well-wishing."

Chess' theory makes sense. If Calum and Peter's symptoms ended in their demise, then they would have contracted two parts of something, therefore rendering Snow's death redundant. If they wanted to see how death, sickness, and insanity worked, they could've spared Snow, because the other two Candidates would die anyway.

But maybe that's what the Community wants me to think. They could've planted Chess here with the hypothesis not of a Subordinate, but an inside worker. Her appearance here is unordinary; there's something going on, something that isn't as visible as I once thought. The Community is testing our responses to diseases, not playing with variables aligned with my decisions. They don't want me to interfere with their trials.

Part of me feels that I can trust Chess with my life, but another part is suspicious about her ambiguity. The smallest part of me thinks that she is a double agent, playing the part of a Subordinate, but reporting the information back to the Community. The idea seems plausible, but the world is so binary-oriented that the thought flees from my mind.

"So what do you think?" Chess waits for my opinion, but I had zoned out, considering the possibility of everything. "Do you support it?"

I nod, worrying my cheek with the tip of my tongue. "Yeah, it really helped calm my nerves." I laugh anxiously.

Chess shifts her weight from the doorframe to her feet, smoothing down her pants to say, "Well, we're done here."

"Thanks so much, Chess."

"Sure, you bet," she acknowledges, grinning slightly. "I hope to relax you." She winks, scuffing her shoe in the sand. "On every possible entendre," she adds.

Chess turns away, sauntering over to Peter and shaking her hand through his already wild hair, leaving me to stare at her with wide eyes. "What does that even mean?" I call back, but she only doubles over laughing for a few seconds.

"Don't get your knee-socks in a twist! It's nothing!"

~~~~~

Apparently, Chess has a nickname for Peter. I only noticed it recently when they were laughing together for the first time in a while, bantering about whatever they wanted to banter about as they laced in playful punches on the arm.

Now, I wouldn't be as ambivalent about it as I am at the moment if the nickname were complimentary, but...Chess seems to go for the more...different ones.

She calls him the Bird Lord, because, for whatever reason, his last name is intriguing for her. I don't see how, but I'll roll with it.

On one hand, I have no idea how and why Peter is choosing to deal with Chess, considering she's almost as sarcastic as he is. On the other hand, I find it healthy for him to have a friend who will engage in the most intimate of acts in a relationship: giving each other nicknames.

I think it's more than healthy, to be quite honest. Chess gives him a smile from her jokes, something that I haven't seen in such a long time, something that's like the sun appearing from behind the clouds after a day of rain. She gives him a reason to laugh, a sound that swirls in the air and makes the mood lighter. She gives him a companion with which to enjoy his time, someone outside of the disfigured doll that we call Giuseppe. She gives him hope. Hope for his past, hope for his present, and hope for his future. Hope that he will survive.

And if some lousy nickname provides all of that for him, then I'm all for it, even if it is completely strange.

I feel that I should thank Chess for the things she's done for Peter, but I'm not sure she'd understand. I'm not sure she'd grasp the idea that she saved him from nausea striking from worry and emptiness, or that he stopped screaming in his sleep when she was around, or even that I can tell his lively appearance has returned, a sign that he's been eating more.

The part that always confuses me about it is that Chess is just a person. She didn't have to make Peter happy. She didn't have to make him actually consume a dinner. She didn't have to stick around him for as long as she did. It was Peter's choice to take care of himself, but the energy was channeled through Chess. There's just something about her that makes Peter trust her, and I'm not complaining about that.

I never really understood, however, how Peter "fancies" Chess, but not me. We're both the same age, around the same height (she's a bit taller), have a joking nature, are both Candidates, and so much more. Yet, somehow, Chess is essential to him.

It might have to do with the fact that I was forced into this mess in the beginning. I know how he acted when we found Calum and Snow, when he even met me — something I obviously won't forget. Chess, however, wasn't present to see any of it. Her appearance was specifically staged to interact with our plans. Perhaps Peter is more comfortable because he didn't have time to practice his veneer of whatever he would choose it to be. Maybe he likes to live in the moment instead of stressing about what may or may not happen in the future; I can tell he already does enough of that. Having Chess here gives him a break from it, from everything malicious.

Even Chess' relationship with Calum is unique. While she "entrances" him by constantly flirting, there's something pleasant to come out of her antics. When she keeps Peter busy, Calum no longer has to worry about having him under lockdown. She also supplements the ambience with cheer, something that he has never had much of. In addition, Chess sought to relinquish her stash of candy to him to brighten his day, or, in this case, his week. That's something Calum will never forget.

And then there's me. We bonded over assisting Calum in transforming another bleak morning into one teeming with opportunities and jubilance. I was the first to find her in the Dome, though I never answered her question about the time it would take to churn milk into butter; I wish I had, but it's too late now.

But, as much as I wish it had been us, it all started with Snow. I have no clue as to how long they've known each other, just that they were friends back home. Something tells me they cared a lot for each other, despite Chess referring to Snow as someone who was "dead as a doornail". Overall, what they had was special, unbreakable.

Chess is so important to us all in many ways, in uncountable ways. It's a shame good things can't last forever.

~~~~~

I awake to the hushed sound of shuffling feet around my head, stopping at some points to collect something of theirs on the ground.

Opening one eye, I find the shadowed body of Chess fleeing from our campsite in a hurry, a bag slung over her shoulder — my bag.

I scurry out from under my blanket, tossing it to my feet carelessly. Jumping up to a standing position, I follow Chess, tiptoeing so I won't capture her attention and wake the others resting beside me.

Chess suddenly halts, having sensed a shift in the air, or perhaps a smell radiating off of me. She spins on her heel, finding my awkward figure lurking in the darkness. I simply stand there like a deer in the headlights, not moving, nor blinking. Her gaze seeps to captivate me; I cannot avert my vision.

"Florence, what are you doing?" Chess' voice is thick with nervousness. "Please go back to bed."

"Not until you tell me what you're doing out here." My words are thickened by the clarity of my tone, even in this irascible situation.

Chess looks down at her feet in hesitation, biting her dark pink lip. "Florence, I can't do that. Just go to sleep please."

"You know, I trusted you, Chess. Yeah, I had some vacillating thoughts about you, but they were only that: thoughts."

My suspicions are now valid, for she has proven them to be completely correct. Even the way she holds an aversion to my questions signals a deceitful nature.

"Florence—"

"No, Chess!"

I'm tired of Chess parading around, acting like she owns the place. She makes Calum's stomach plummet and she teases Peter about his mental state. She has no sense of diplomacy; she simply takes what she wants, leaving the scattered remains to fend for themselves.

A hand suddenly flies across my face, leaving a stinging sensation in its wake. My cheek simmers with red coloring in the remnants of fingerprints.

"I said you need to go." A trace of begging lingers in Chess' eyes, turning her normally gorgeous face to the appearance of a ragged, old woman. The state of her expression ages her drastically. Her pulchritude is no more.

My legs wobble, competing inordinately to keep me standing upright. My breathing turns shallow and my heartbeat quickens its already racing pulse.

Chess looks up at the sky, a worried look painted on her face. She then glances down at her watch, grimacing. "It's March fifteenth."

The importance of the date is unclear to me, but I know it must be past midnight, because the last time I checked, we were only on the fourteenth of March. What happens today that Chess is so fretful about? She knows more than she lets on. She always does.

All of the sudden, a long blade pierces through the air, wedging itself into Chess' back and poking out through her stomach. The first drops of blood fall from her lean figure to the ground, denting the soft sand with the marks of a nearing tragedy.

I scream, covering my mouth with my hand as she falls, revealing a hooded figure that I can only recognize to be her brother, Ezra.

"Hello, Florence," he greets, sliding his knife out from Chess' limp body. His eyes are cold, remorse absent like nothing I've ever seen.

"Ezra?" I croak. This can't be. No, it _can't_ be. They're _family_. They're supposed to protect each other.

"Lucky guess." He smiles, disappearing into the dark night and leaving me to mourn my dying friend.

The abrupt nature of the attack startles me, gluing my feet to my place for a few seconds, attempting to digest the details.

I collapse to the ground, my knees hitting the landscape with a notable impact. Sand digs into my skin, but I ignore the pain to tend to Chess. It's the least I can do after spewing out insulting phrases in her face.

"Chess, are you okay?" I catechize her, propping her back onto my hands to act as a support for her failing figure.

"What does it look like?" Chess retorts, blood spilling from her mouth and trailing down her chin, eventually making its way into the dips of her neck.

Even in death, Chess retains her caustic attitude towards everything. A knife wound marked upon her flesh isn't enough to stop sarcastic words from tumbling out of her lips. Some part of me envies her resilience.

Something I've noticed about Chess is that she contains the innate ability to make people crack a smile, in particular when grinning is the last thing penned on their agenda. She's under no pressure to tell a joke and cause people to laugh, but she does so anyway.

And so I succumb to her pressure. "I don't know why I'm smiling. It's something about you that I just can't help but give in to."

"You're fine because you know I'll be."

"Chess, you're dying. I wouldn't call that fine."

"Well, I would."

My face falls at her notably low standards for wellbeing. In a state of absolute peril, the worst time a human could ever find themselves in, she brushes off her imminent doom. What made her so phlegmatic towards death? _Why_ does she not seek help?

My stomach suddenly clenches with alarm. "I need to get you back to Calum and Peter!"

Chess shakes her head. "It's okay." Her hand finds its way into mine, pressing down as a sure reminder of her existence. Her body is turning pale with each stroke of pain slithering across her skin and daring her nervous system to fight back.

"It's not." My voice breaks as a tear falls onto the bloody mess of fabric, skin, and fluids mixing below me. "Why won't you do something for yourself, you coward?"

Chess ignores me, squinting her eyes to focus on the sight above her instead of on my face, pinched with a concoction of emotions. "Isn't the sky so beautiful tonight?"

As if fulfilling Chess' dying wish, even though she never asked anything of me, I glance up at the sky — grey, like her eyes that are slowly losing their light, with a mixture of the shadowy hue of her hair that flies around her head when she skips; when she's happy, an experience she'll never encounter again. "Absolutely radiant," I reply, choking on my words. I avert my gaze to the body slowly bleeding out in front of me to take my final judgments of her, but there's only one thing I have to say.

I'm not ready to let go.

Chess' eyes flutter like an animal trapped in a cage, slowly losing its strength, its determination. Her lips are parted, as if handing over her last kiss to the world before it takes her spirit, hushed with the tones of nature blending in her ears. Her cheeks are soft like the trickling water of a stream, and her eyelashes are placed so delicately on her gaunt face, as if a goddess had blessed her once more with the gentleness of the falling leaves in autumn. And as she takes her final breath, closing her fate to one of a mortal's, the clouds fall to dust to reveal a dim moon circling above her head and cast light upon her sheet-white face, begging for another act of true perfection before she goes, with the spotlight shining all around.

"She can't do anything for you!" I reprimand the sky, whose beauties had consumed her last words. "She's dead!" My pitch falls into a throaty sob, catching breath and manufacturing it into puffs of absolute loss. "She's dead," I repeat in a whisper form.

Chess never wanted me to follow her out here. Maybe if I hadn't, she wouldn't have been distracted by getting me to leave, therefore focusing on her assassin of a brother. She might not have been dead right now. Things would be different.

My hands shake as I reach two fingers forward to feel for the steady beat of Chess' pulse, to see if, somehow, she is still living. I discover nothing, no reassurance in any shape. With a discontented sigh, I slide my hands under her body to lift her up and find my way back to our building, where Peter and Calum still rest.

Each step is torture, and not because I am weak, but because I not only carry the weight of a human, I carry the weight of my burdens exhumed through Chess' death. I know my way back; that's not my problem. I have traveled through many times, including the occasion of Snow's passing, but this time, it's different. This time, the load of having Chess' blood on my hands, on my conscience, is enough to change every powerful footstep hollow.

Everything seems like slow motion. The way Calum and Peter rush towards me with worried faces, the way Peter's face droops when he sees Chess' dead body, the way the two have to support me so I won't collapse. It all seems so unreal.

I can barely hear Calum shouting my name, how tears cling to his face in his attempts to gain my attention. His eyes are red from grief, his shirt damp with the product of regret and bemoaning, yet I do not listen to his desperate pleas for assistance. The world is quiet, just how I like it. It makes room for pretending like death is not a force that haunts me every waking moment.

"Florence!" Calum restates. He shakes my shoulders to bring me back from a point of almost falling into the abyss of complete indifference.

My lip quivers, eyes tightening to suppress tears, and I fall into Calum's clutch. "It's my fault."

Now, the tables of time have reversed. In Calum's arms, time is constantly ticking away, though the sporadic noises of the clock make me want to claw my ears off, to forget it all. I don't want to waste more seconds.

"It's not, Florence."

"I've heard that far too many times. It's an automatic response, not a guarantee." I can feel Calum sigh against me, expeditiously scavenging for more ammunition to convince me why, somehow, I am not responsible.

"I know exactly how guilt weaves its way into everything you do. It's generally all that happens with me with...you know."

I look up at Calum with doe eyes, compassionate as the changing of seasons. "I don't ever note upon your tendencies, because your condition should not be your defining feature." I glance back at Peter, who is only staring at Chess, lying inert on the cold sand while the sun continues to glare down at her.

Peter, who never shows any emotion (except for umbrage) towards anyone, seems to be the most devastated out of all of us. He found someone he could hold onto, but she slipped through his fingers once again. He never deserves what he is handed.

The sky is still dark and hungering for the continuous reign of night. The sun is hours away from popping above the horizon, but, again, nothing can save Chess, not even the absence of the time that stole her features for its own display.

And so we wait. We wait for Peter to dig a hole the depth of six feet, through anguish and lamentation. We wait for Chess' body to be lowered into it, like the moon descending behind the ocean to make way for the light. We wait for all of the sand to be piled back on top of Chess, grains of denial slipping past her lips and through her fingers. We wait for the sorrow to turn into something else, something that doesn't hurt so much. But it never does. And we're still waiting.

I don't know how long we stay with Chess, staring and staring at the tombstone made from a meager piece of wood and one of Peter's knives. My hand is joined with Peter and Calum's, our fingers intertwined as a reminder that we're still together, that we're still alive and breathing, and that no matter how troublesome the Evaluation will get, we're still kicking.

My eyes devour every detail of the grave, through every line, every knot and mark etched on the surface. The wood from which it was made, I begin to understand, resembles my chest — empty and carved however nature likes it, never to be mine again.

Soon, when the first streaks of light paint the air above my head, Calum and Peter unhook their hands from mine to venture inside, leaving me to mourn my friend without prying eyes.

Already, I miss Chess. I miss the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, or how she was never ready to fall asleep, always wanting more of her surroundings. I miss how she daydreamed in between her words, imagining what could be when it seemed inappropriate to do so. I miss how she reveled in her self-induced amusement and took advice from no one, even at times when it would be incredibly helpful for her to change her ways.

Even when I met her only a couple days ago, Chess dazzled me with her fearlessness. Instead of approaching me with a witty remark — or, perhaps, a threatening one, like Peter — she inquired about the time it would take to churn milk into butter. And those things, those wondrous things thick with splendor, those are what made Chess more than Chesslyn Arwen Ryker, more than a Subordinate, more than a flirtatious girl from the Lumen Province. It made her truly gorgeous. And for that, I cannot compare her to anyone except the very existence of the dawn at the start of a new day and the dusk when it falls.

Yet, all she received in return was an earnest wooden slab on which her name is messily scrawled with the strokes of a blade with so much history. In apology, I leave all that I can: my shame and my guilt, my courage and my pride, my past and my future. Because she deserved so much more.

Chess once told me I'd be burying her soon. I just didn't realize she was serious. I suppose she loves literal meanings.

We agreed to never speak about her again.

 


	8. Requiem

_In the rare occurrence of a Rogue Citizen,_

_the people of the Community are encouraged_  
to stay inside. If one should find themselves  
in the troubling situation of deciding to  
assist someone, the answer is always to  
leave them behind. Self-preservation is  
an important ideal for survival.

 _-_ Emergency Procedures in the Community Manual _, page 7_

_~~~~~_

"We need to break into the Community Headquarters."

Peter and I stare at Calum, dumbfounded by his sudden burst of confidence.

Earlier, when Peter had suggested the idea, we had been all for it, rhapsodic about the prospect of leaving this horrid place, stricken with worry from Chess' death just previously that day.

Now, Calum and Peter have learned to manage their symptoms well enough to get through the ordeal of daily life, so the idea of escaping is merely an unreachable whim. The Community won't include the bonus of a departure along with the current dormancy of their syndromes. I'll admit, it isn't perfect, but it's all we've got, and that's enough for all three of us "rapscallions", as Mrs. Curtis would put it.

"Slow down," Peter says, blinking indifferently and folding his arms across his chest, signaling Calum to defend his case.

"Look, this could be essential to figuring out why we're here, why this is happening," Calum voices, using exaggerated hand gestures; obviously, he's fairly new to fervor.

"Even if we could get answers," Peter begins, exchanging authoritative glances with me, "which we can't, how are we supposed to escape this bloody dome?"

"Shouldn't use metal. That would hurt if the electricity decided to plot a rebellion against us." Calum looks so hopeful, so I shouldn't shut him down.

"Florence, what do you think?" Peter inquires absently, partially forgetting that he shouldn't care about my opinion.

"Honestly, I think we need to understand why all of this is happening to us. You both are dying, Snow's already gone, we only got four limited days with Chess, which wasn't enough, I might add, and I have no idea what's going on with me, or what's not going on with me. If we can get out of the Dome, we can figure it out."

Clearly, this expedition will not be effortless. It's going to require hours of planning, strategizing, and rubbing the tiredness from our eyes as we work late into the night. I'm not even sure we can accomplish it, but we have to try.

"This is all you, Calum," Peter warns. "If something goes wrong, you're to blame."

"I expected nothing less." Calum clasps his hands together, ready for an adventure, though mostly just the formulating part.

"Aight, leggo," Peter howls. Calum cringes, forcing Peter to add, "What?"

"I reject colloquial speech."

"Okay, whatever that means." Peter gives a nervous smile, patting Calum on the back as he scoots outside to mull things over, devise a plan to break out.

Beholding the area around my shoes, Giuseppe's angered face leers at me from the corner of my eye. He looks particularly off today, like the effect of Chess' death had consumed him, too, but I then remember that Giuseppe is an insensitive meatloaf who probably never met her — Peter didn't need him once he acquired a new acquaintance, which is wonderful, but now, Giuseppe is soon to plot his malicious revenge.

"What're you looking at?" I hiss, kicking the bean-shaped figure aside and stomping out the door, occasionally throwing glances back at the doll to make sure he doesn't have a knife tucked somewhere in his purple sack that Peter calls his suit.

~~~~~

I find Calum absently resting on our traditional boulder, legs crossed as he pants heavily, attempting to locate his breath.

It's become a daily routine to meet each other on the rock and talk about whatever it is we're interested in at the current moment. So far, we've discussed a plethora of ideas, some serious, some so far-fetched that we have no idea where it came from afterwards. I find it quite the perfect way to channel our energy through storytelling and speech.

In my hand, I excitedly clutch a ragged piece of paper that I sneakily stole from Peter's book while he was asleep, a task that required a lot of planning beforehand. I knew Peter wouldn't let me off the hook after I had snooped in his journal again.

Using my glorious spare time, I scrawled a poem upon the sheet, rushing to finish before Peter woke up.

Honestly, I confess that it's nothing much, but it's the best I could do. I just really hope it surprises Calum and that he enjoys it.

"Hello, Florence," Calum greets as I near, fear blooming in my stomach as I hold the paper in both hands like a devout fan meeting her celebrity crush and asking for an autograph — though that's an old practice, before the Community came around, but I've always found it oddly interesting.

"I, um, I wrote a poem and I'd like you to read it."

"I'm not so much a critic as I am an author, but sure, I'll read it," he replies, gently taking the poem from my hand.

_Is that a good thing? A bad thing? What does he mean?_

His eyes scan the page, studying it, and he begins to read.

_It's okay, I'm okay._

_But I already told you that._

_But I think I'm holding on too tightly_

_To those things I think about nightly._

_But I already told you that._

_I should've told you that before I wasn't alive._

_Before I close my eyes._

_Before I say goodbyes._

_Before the warmth in my heart shrivels up and dies._

_But I already told you that._

Calum pauses after finishing the script, contemplating the complexity of it, evaluating every aspect, causing my heart to hammer violently against my ribcage.

"So....do you like it?" I wonder timidly. I begin to fiddle with my hands as I anxiously wait for his reply.

"Yeah, it's really well written," Calum comments, skimming the document briefly before handing it back to me.

_He's lying, isn't he? I happen to know it's very bad, not at all well written. He's definitely faking it. I just know it._

"You think I'm joking," Calum says finally, a small smile playing on his lips, though I can tell he's secretly smirking at me, just hiding it.

"Well yeah," I admit, nodding my head. "It's a really unsophisticated poem."

"If you truly believe that I draw every piece of elegance from something and present it to the world, then you should understand that your poem is no exception."

_Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have told him that. He probably would've figured it out anyway, though..._

"I quite like the repetition of 'but I already told you that' every few lines. It's what I would best describe as contradictory, like the narrator is battling internally through the pronoun, 'you', coming across as arguing with another person, when, in fact, they are arguing with themselves. This could reveal a mysterious, conflicted persona, someone who is ashamed to admit their own flaws, rather push them onto others.

"I expressly appreciated the second to last line, 'before the warmth in my heart shrivels and dies'. It is my belief that the narrator was so full of hope, but now, as the war raging inside comes to an end, they find themselves becoming more like a rock — hard and inhuman, inanimate, indifferent to everything around them.

"The first line was rather interesting. 'It's okay, I'm okay.' It resembles the fact that underneath, the narrator really isn't okay, but has to put on a smiling face in order to keep people from being sucked into the turbulent storm of their life, because they know just how terrifying it is down there.

"I'm sure I've been rambling on far too long about the hidden meaning. After all, you say it's just a simple poem. A poem's never really simple, though."

"Um, I'm glad you like it?" I say hesitantly, folding the paper back up unevenly and tucking it into my pocket, all in a rapid motion as to not draw more attention to myself and to keep Calum's prying eyes away from it, where he would further dissect the thing.

"It's really refined, polished," Calum adds. "I like to think that the buried meaning is somewhat pertinent to the author's personal experience, however."

"What about the person who is astute enough to uncover the covert connotation within it?" I counter, attempting to finally decode something about Calum for once, instead of having him pick at every detail of my life like the scientist he aspires to be.

Calum always directs the attention away from himself, enjoying the fact that he forces it onto others to keep them out of his personal life, like it's somehow precarious for them to know, much like my supposed narrator does.

"I'm not keen on introspective awakening."

_"I'm not keen on introspective awakening." No, you're just not keen on sharing your introspective findings with anyone but yourself._

"You're just hiding something," I challenge, nudging his foot as he swings it around my face.

_Please don't you dare hit me with your size nine shoes. I'm only a size eight; you're intimidating._

I decide to pull myself onto the boulder to gain a more equal approach to him ("Eye contact is important!" Mrs. Curtis had told me — probably the one thing I listened to that came out of her mouth, heavy with dark red lipstick that she probably gets from the black market; I knew there was something up with her).

"I'm hiding a lot of things, but that doesn't make a difference," Calum counters without fear.

_Well that did not go as well as I expected. I was hoping he'd reveal something, or at least get nervous enough for me to beckon it out of him gradually._

"Ain't that the truth?" I laugh nervously, recalling a phrase Pan had repeated all the time in fifth grade, annoying every single teacher and parent out there, including his favorite: the principal.

"I know you're trying to figure me out, Florence, but trust me when I say you don't want to know the things that go on in my mind. You can keep asking away, but I won't tell you anything unless you find out yourself."

Calum's beginning to terrify me, the way he always covers his tracks and refuses to disclose anything relevant to his personal life.

"Can you at least tell me a weird habit that you have? I want to know _something_ about you — you're not just a huge enigma; you have interests, pets, _structure to your life_."

"Well this isn't really a weird habit, more like a compulsive courtesy, but I always tidy up the table on the rare occasion that I go out to restaurants with my family," Calum offers, hoping the information will please me enough to put my urge for knowledge to rest.

It's my turn to share. "Personally, my internal monologue is more reflecting of whom I am, but I suppose I don't like drinking out of glass cups, making straws my best friends, and I hate ice in my beverages; I don't know why."

Mrs. Curtis was enraged when I shared this with her, considering she views glass cups and ice as her savior and children — she really values inanimate objects. She tried her best to accommodate my irrational needs, but sometimes, she can become lazy and merely shoves a glass with ice in my hands unintentionally and I stand there while the condensation fogs it up like a little kid in a car, breathing on the window, fascinated.

"Yeah, I tend to like things at room temperature. My mouth is pretty sensitive to hot things — they taste like the scalding sand of the desert, or pretty much the Dome — and my teeth are sensitive to cold things — I don't get brain freezes; I get tooth freezes, if that makes any sense. They seem to hurt a lot more," Calum laughs, running his tongue over his "sensitive teeth".

"What's your biggest pet peeve?" I inquire, itching to find a weapon against him, though he'll probably investigate mine as well.

"You'll be able to employ this one rapidly, Florence, but I can't stand when people mispronounce things, in particular, when it's on accident, a natural speech mistake that has been burnt into their minds. I'm just picky. What about you?"

_Whut aboot meh, yew esk?_

"I really detest those trivial students who prolong class by asking inappropriate, irrelevant, and ineffective questions. They're stealing time from the people who actually want to absorb the information the teacher is teaching us — which is her _job_ ; she gets payed to assist us in our intellectual growth, but those kind of students damage the somber concept of school."

"I was always the student who anxiously glanced at the small, round, intimidating wall clock every five seconds, glancing at my watch for the other time, yet still payed eager attention to the class' discussion."

I imagine Calum staring intently at the clock, jaw dropping absently as he types furiously on the computer in front of him, jotting down online notes as the teacher spiels about the ancient and barbarous times before the Community with no idea that the Community brought the downfall of society masquerading as a new, fresh start, a second chance for every Citizen devastated by war.

"What are your aspirations?" Calum interjects before I can interrogate him further, though my questions are fine — they're not as disgruntling as he fears.

"At first, it was to be in the Evaluation, but you can see where that got me. But I think I've always wanted to have a blood contract — like a covenant, but sealed by pricking your finger and letting it fall onto something; sometimes, it even swirls with the other peoples' blood. It's pretty cool."

Of course I'm lying, but I don't want to share with him that my greatest dream is to be a writer, because it sounds so dismal in the presence of a true artist who captures the world so beautifully.

"Oh, I happen to know a guy that can help you out with that."

_Why does he know a guy who performs the sacred ritual of creating a blood contract? It seems pretty sketchy to me._

"Calum, no."

_I got myself in too deep._

"Yeah, he's pretty wacky. I don't think it's very safe for you to do that anyway. Before the Community, some royalty used to marry their close family, so their children often had blood diseases called hemophilia that strengthened when each parents' genes merged, causing the kids to bleed excessively if they were ever unfortunately injured — sometimes the wounds never heal and can be fatal if targeted in a specific place such as the brain or inside joints. If that's the case, you pricking your finger could be cataclysmic."

_Thanks for your concern, Calum, but I'm quite resolved on the entelechy that I do not, in fact, have hemophilia. With all of my tree climbing expeditions, I never bleed for more than five minutes, tops._

There used to be around seven billion people in the world before the Community, some of which were royalty from other countries, or even a bit farther away from family, yet they chose to remain within the secret compound of their kinship. I don't understand why, and now they have hemophilia to remind themselves of it.

"I'm pretty sure that's not what happened with my family, Calum."

My parents look alike, chiefly eyes and hair, but not enough to resemble family — their bone structure is way off. My mother has a bit larger light brown eyes, a nose that curls upward at the end, and paler skin, while my father has medium dark brown eyes, an average nose, and tan skin. Everyone tells me I look exactly like my mom, though my eyes are like my dad's.

"The Community probably looked into your medical records before enlisting you in the Evaluation, so that seems like a false possibility," Calum spectates, retracting his previous allegation.

"What's your favorite food?" I ask, laboring to form an environment where he feels protected and secure — he's had enough anxiety to last a lifetime — and withdraw from our conversation about life-threatening blood clotting issues.

"It's sounds so bland, but salad, primarily with dressing poured in globs over the top, where I can mix it around to cover every surface of the lettuce, for the green leaf clump of a vegetable is disgusting alone."

_Excuse me, did you just bring shame to Mrs. Endo's cabbage stand? I'm pretty sure I saw some lettuce over there, too. I'll tell Mrs. Endo to rally her vegetable forces and take down Calum Zabel for his treacherous accusations._

"I like macaroni and cheese. My mother used to make it for me every Friday night in the anticipation of me bringing a friend over to have a slumber party." My head falls, remembering the good times filled with excessive amounts of cheese powder splattering my face, how sometimes it would create intricate patterns upon my cheeks and generate the highlights I've always wanted in my hair.

When my parents died, Mrs. Curtis refused to cook the small tubes of pasta ever again, even through hours of my hostile pleading and screaming. She said it was polluting my mind with remnants of what has been and what can never be again — ironic, considering how much she revels in the Community's history and upbringing.

"My father loved that stuff," Calum chuckles. "He had boxes upon boxes of it, filling up the cabinets — not the Community kind, but the brand from England; he thought it was somehow better, but I couldn't prove that, because he hoarded it and wouldn't even let me touch it. My mother got so angry with him, saying that she could've filled the space with cookbooks and kitchenware, even though she's a terrible cook and only presented them at dinner parties so other adults would perceive her to be some sort of master chef.

"When he left, she raided the cabinets, throwing the boxes into the trashcan in a mad frenzy. I stood there and watched as her tears mixed with the powder, how the noodles flew everywhere, creating a tornado around her face.

"My mother told me that I should never have to think about that 'treacherous man' ever again, that I would be disobeying her if I did so. My father was a kind person, and I, of course, didn't want to let go. That's when it started." His voice breaks, falling as the color drains from his already pale face.

 _Calum, you don't have to do this. Please don't strain yourself. Please, Calum, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to_ , I try to say, but nothing makes it past my lips.

"It was just verbal, but it was still horrifying. She said the cruelest things, her voice laced with the most umbrage I had ever heard from everyone combined. She blamed me for _everything_.

"She forced me into the scariest situations I had ever been in, toying with my anxiety like it was some kind of joke for her. She made sure I never made friends by scaring them off whenever they came over, or even tormenting them when she picked me up when it was too stormy to ride home on my bike.

"School became my best friend, a time when I could be away from my mother, athirst for trouble of the most traumatizing type.

"Every time she moved, I worried that her words would turn to a fist. That's why being touched is so troubling for me. Certain people are worse than others, some people are all right. It's hard to explain.

"You just... You look so much like her. The eyes are different; hers are dark green, like Peter's. The resemblance is uncanny other than that. Yet there's something about you that makes you so simple to trust.

"But you don't want to hear about that," Calum concludes, barely noticing my jaw, agape with surprise and horror.

_How did his mother not go to jail? That's something a person would be imprisoned for in the Community — we're all about prosperity._

"Calum..."

Calum's pouring out his soul to me, free of exceptions, free of the walls that enclose his thoughts. They're grim, the things he's seen. This is what I asked for. Shouldn't I be glad? Shouldn't I be grateful that he's finally opening up? But he never blocked me out. He only wanted to protect me. And now I know why.

"It's okay, Florence. Really, it is. I'll either die in here, or the Community will have plans for us afterwards, plans that will take me away from my mother."

_Why is it that the prospect of the Evaluation suddenly death?_

I came into the Dome with so much hope, not a trace of ambivalence staining my demeanor, but this wasn't what I predicted. I didn't foresee the tragic pasts of my fellow Candidates seeping their way into their mindset, poisoning them.

"I won't let you die," I state boldly, raising my eyebrows triumphantly as I place my hands on my hips and turn towards him.

"If only it were that simple," Calum sighs, looking down at his hands like they're the love of his life.

"I find it my duty to save your life."

False hope is better than no hope at all. That's what Director Damon had said when confronted about the ongoing war. I only wish Calum were gullible enough to believe that I can actually do something worthwhile for him — but he isn't and I can't.

He adjusts his position to face me, his light eyes digging deep into my soul, penetrating its secrets; it makes me rather uncomfortable when he does it. "This? This isn't life. This is a plague. And it's terrifying.

"Plagues spread, Florence. That's why I don't like you asking questions about me, because it's dangerous. I don't want you wrapped up in trying to solve my problems, because you can't, and it will hurt you.

"The worst part about it is that you're so ambitious. I told you that the first time we met. Your ambition will destroy you. You won't relent. You can't do anything about me, but you'll tear yourself apart trying."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Please don't apologize. It's not your fault," Calum amends, taking my cold hands in his own. They fit together perfectly like a pair of puzzle pieces, the same size, locking to create a bigger picture. "I quite like your ambition." Calum smiles, untangling our hands and jumping off the boulder zealously, his hands flying in the air. "It's just that sometimes, it's misplaced."

_He's going to hurt himself. He's sick and weak._

However, by some miracle, he escaped the solid force of the ground and landed unscathed, somewhat like a ballerina.

The sight of Calum in a leotard and a tutu makes me shudder, uniquely because I took ballet classes when I was in first grade — every six year-old wanted to be a ballerina princess at that time; every girl goes through that phase, but those who never escape that nightmare usually become vigorous athletes who could whoop me in a dance battle any day.

I got sick of the classes very soon, with the teacher so full of contempt that it seemed hard for her to breathe. They occurred on Saturdays as well, so I would scream as my mother stuffed me into my tights right after breakfast.

"Florence, are you coming?" Calum calls from below, unaware that I'm only about a foot above his head.

I jump off of the boulder, flapping my arms to pretend like I'm an eagle as I soar into the air and soon plummet to the ground, my stomach dropping in the process.

As we venture back to the building, I anxiously hope he won't bring up the topics we discussed a few minutes earlier. My chest tightens in anticipation, but the startling words never come.

That night, I rip the poem to shreds.

~~~~~

"10:27," Peter comments. "We've been drawing things in the sand for nearly four hours!"

"We're not just drawing _things_ ," Calum corrects him, his face leaning on his hand, pushing his glasses into an odd angle.

"Oh, right, we're drawing _weird lines and such_."

In order to break into the Community headquarters, Calum devised a genius plan to come crashing through the Dome's curved walls and make our way on foot to the tallest building in the Epistylium Province.

Peter doesn't concur with it, but how could anyone trust him to like anything Calum puts on the table? He's intensely self-absorbed, and that's excluding the fact that he despises Calum with "a burning passion", as he described it himself.

"They're only weird because your handwriting is trash."

Truth be told, Peter's handwriting looks like a kindergartener wrote it, yet worse. It's like they wrote it in a hurry to catch up to the ice cream man, drafting a brief note to their mother on the way out, telling her to excuse them for removing some cash from her wallet.

"Can you please stop bickering like an old married couple?" I shout, earning a horrified and offended expression from Peter.

" _Married_?" he whispers, narrowing his eyes in denial.

_I can dig it._

"Give me a kiss, baby," Calum pleads, chasing Peter around our plans with haste, utilizing the last heap of strength that he has, a smile flashing on his lips for what seems like the first time in forever.

I sigh, imagining a world where he smiles more — I was never one for smiling, but I find it beautiful when others do so, especially those people who keep a straight face often.

"Florence!" Peter shrieks, shaking my shoulders with a wild look in his eyes, returning me to the harsh reality.

"I think you'd be cute together," I tease, a toothy grin spreading across my lips.

"Florence, _help_."

"Okay, okay, that's enough of your quixotic gestures."

Calum merely cachinnates even louder than before, sliding his glasses off his nose and polishing them with the hem of his shirt, then placing them back just as carefully.

He reveals a small grin, causing me to realize how beautifully candid he appears in this moment. His glasses carelessly placed atop his face, his raven hair messy, sticking up in every direction, addition to his clothes clinging loosely to his frame. Although he is about two inches taller than me, I always feel like we're standing at eye level as equals. His pupils, though usually medium sized, are wide with excitement, acting as a centerpiece among his light blue irises.

_I can see why Snow liked him._

My chest suddenly grows hollow, recalling how much Snow truly did adore Calum and how much she wanted him to make it through this treacherous existence and how much Calum fought to keep her out of danger, primarily from Peter.

I direct my attention to the other one then, watching as Peter dusts off his clothes, his bantering suddenly falling to the ground in a halo to be forgotten.

And then there's Peter, with his shaggy dark brown hair, sweeping in his face at every possible moment. His paranoia seems to elect to have him push it back constantly as well. His bright green eyes are always so brilliant, no matter how hard he tries to dull them, casting them to the ground when anyone looks at him.

These are my friends. And they are exquisite.

I just wish Snow could've been here to see this moment. She would've reveled in the sight of her best friends running around with the last scraps of their spirit just to have a good time. She would've been so proud of Peter for coming to terms with himself. She would've been so proud of Calum for pursuing a normal life in spite of his condition. And she would've been so proud of me for being there to guide them along the way, regardless of how peevish and immature they can be.

As much fun as I'm having with Calum and Peter, Snow would've made a perfect addition to our trio. She would've lit up the world with her smile and told the boys that they're beautiful just the way they are — something they need now that their physical strength is at its worst, along with their mental strength.

Calum and Peter would've wished for it to be true as well. Calum's opinion is absolute. Even Peter liked her, underneath all of his sarcasm and spleen — it isn't so pretentious of me to say so. How could anyone not adore Snow?

I continue to observe them, though they've refrained from starting up their wild chase again, but they're still so unmediated that it's uncommonly difficult to avert my gaze from their shadowy figures.

There's always been something about relationships with friends that makes it so troublesome to let go of their faces. But at least I have a mental image for later, for when their faces aren't readily accessible, though I hope that day never comes to pass.

~~~~~

"Calum's getting worse," Peter sighs, burying his face in his hands, fingertips slipping through his hairline. "He can barely walk."

Every time I see Calum, he's either catching his breath on the ground or attempting to defeat his lethargy by running around the building. It's quite disheartening, to be honest. He tries so hard, but he knows he doesn't have much longer.

"Well what about you? You're spiraling into insanity."

"It comes and goes," he murmurs without removing his body from the position he's currently in, straddling his legs lazily. "The Community's sick, you know that?" He lifts his head to give me a glare. "Completely mental."

I grimace, but I don't have enough power to do even that correctly and fully. "There's nothing we can do about it."

" _Nothing we can do about it_? Florence, a day ago, you were so insistent about everything. Don't give us hope to rip it away from us with your obstinate hypocrisy." His words are laced with malevolence, stinging as he draws out the sentence.

Yet, I continue on with my point. "You know it, too. Besides, I didn't take you as someone so full of ambition," I amend, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Florence, I'm tired and I'm dying, but if I can help you and Calum, then I will."

Peter Sparrow, previously so volatile, now is a shell of what he used to be. It's somewhat depressing, how much he's changed. On a fleeting chance, I hope he survives, but I can't be sure, with the lack of power he possesses.

"I just, you're so perfect at everything you do and I'm just a mess up. I'm trying, but I can't seem to do anything and I just want to _leave_. I want to get out of here and I'm willing to give it a shot — break into the headquarters." Peter's given up all of his energy, tussling his hair to discard any dust stuck in between the locks — the only thing he wishes to do.

Sometimes I have to help him stand up, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, making him force all of his weight onto my body so he can reserve his fuel.

"You always criticize me and you're so insensitive towards Calum. With all this going on, you could be a little more kind. Calum's already been through enough. And Snow! You pestered her until the moment she died and you know it. _Literally_ the moment she died. You could've shown her some kindness. Sometimes, I wish it were you who had died instead of Snow."

"Don't you think I wish the same thing?" Peter confesses in a screeching tone, tears making their way down his cheeks.

My face falls and I try to apologize, but he only hides behind his hands.

"I know you hate me and I can't change, but you won't have to deal with me much longer." He extends his legs and shuffles out the door.

_What does he mean by that?_

Guilt twists in my stomach and my joints tense with apprehension. If Peter is going to do something reckless, I want to know what.

~~~~~

Calum stands in front of the plans drawn in the sand, a perturbed expression stuck on his face, something original for the mastermind I know.

"Hey, are you all right?" I ask calmly, rubbing his back soothingly, attempting to calm his nerves.

"Yeah, it's just... I'm distressed about this whole thing."

"It's okay. You are _so_ brilliant, Calum. Your plan is flawless, and we can do this." I give him a smile, causing the corners of his lips to curl slightly. I laugh with all of my body, as Calum would phrase it so elegantly.

Calum draws me into an embrace, like it's the best hug he's ever given. I sigh in his arms, letting myself bury my face in his shoulder, as we breathe in each other for the last time.

He smells of fresh parchment and cinnamon, swirling together as one, a smell that I desperately desire to create into candle form, though I can foresee no one ever purchasing it. As I clutch him, I grow fond of the scent, allowing myself to inhale and exhale what is purely Calum.

My limbs relax as I melt into him, our personalities colliding as if they are one in this state. Tears pull at my eyes, falling softly onto the fabric of his shirt.

"Florence..."

"You don't have to say anything." I reach up to run my hand through his dark mane to focus on that, instead of something dangerous, running my fingers over every curve I encounter, on his head, down the nape of his neck. I abruptly release Calum, staring deep into his eyes, my eyes swelling with twitterpation. Sliding my finger across his eyebrow in absent fascination, I whisper, "You're going to make it."

He merely nods solemnly. "Florence, I'm scared," Calum admits, shaking, beginning to cry.

Stifling a sob, I throw my arms around Calum's neck once more, maintaining his position in my arms. I squeeze even tighter, completely liquefying to the point where I have to rely on him to keep me upright, but I can't force my legs to work. "You know what? You're a survivor, Calum."

"Dying is so much easier. I'm surprised I made it this far. I really am. It's some sort of miracle or something."

I knit my brows. "Don't think like that. You've had enough of that mentality."

"You're so kind to me, Florence," Calum acknowledges, sinking into me, green to being loose.

"I'm just doing what a decent person would do."

"Those people back home," he starts, worrying his mouth with his tongue, "they call themselves decent people, throw the term around carelessly. A decent person doesn't shame people who are different from them."

"I know; I'm sorry," I apologize for Calum's classmates. "But that's how it is with extraordinary people: everyone around them refuses to accept that they are radiant, truly radiant, causing the light to be stomped out."

Calum wraps his arms tighter around my waist.

"And the kids at your school," I continue, "well, their foot wasn't big enough."

He half laughs, half cries against me and I feel the warmth return to his scrawny frame. "I don't suppose I've said enough about _you_ ," Calum remarks. "I think I need to make amends.

"First off, I realize you don't think much about yourself, notably your appearance. Your eyes, you hate them, calling them the color of dirt. But they are also the color of skin kissed by the sun, an object of heliolatry.

"Your hair, you also hate that, constantly messing with it, tying it up into a knot, or letting it cling messily to your neck, or in any case, flagrantly endeavoring to hide it. But it is like a river cascading down your back, light streaks accenting it so perfectly.

"And your smile. Oh God, your smile. Though I never see it often, it shines through any of the darkness that you encounter. It compliments your face so well, flourishing with every admiring glance from a stranger.

"Your generosity, always present when someone needs it. You see the good in people, even when it is so desperately lacking from their own views.

"You find beauty in each and every thing you come across, taking note of how it looks, what impact it has on the world. You pick out its details, its best features, making it a public spectacle of gorgeousness. You say I do that, but I humbly decline. It's you who completes those actions.

"You tell people that they matter every day, because you've seen what it's like to be self-conscious, and believe me, I know its horrors; I'm best friends with my insecurity.

"You are so remarkable in every way imaginable and I can't picture a life without you in it, because you're always here, no matter how hard I wish you weren't.

"So what I'm trying to say is... You're the best person I've ever had the experience of knowing. I've never had a friend quite like you."

I collapse in Calum's embrace, nothing making sense anymore, my mind having gone numb from a lack of understanding. But right now, the words he spoke are more than enough to lift my spirits.

"Was it something I said?" he asks sheepishly.

"Shut up, you dingus."

Our breaths are shallow from the trepidation of the task that we are about to complete. Nothing I have ever faced has been this challenging, this nerve-wracking. This means probable death not only for me, but for my closest friends, which makes the adventure all the more rattling.

My fingers weave through his hair as a distraction from the matter at hand, tugging gently at the strands located on his neck, making him smile against my shoulder. "Do you know how scared I am right now?"

Calum shifts slightly, appalled by my question. "A word of advice from my fathre — pick your battles and pick them well. You only have one chance."

A rattling noise erupts from the door frame of the building, making me jump.

I pull apart from Calum to find Peter staring, Giuseppe and his journal clutched tightly in his hands. He merely continues walking after a slight pause, shrugging the sight off indifferently, but I can tell he cared about it.

"Um, hi, Peter," I start meekly. "Are you...um, are" — I clear my throat — "Are you getting ready to go?"

"Yeah, with no help from you," he snaps, stuffing the items in his messenger bag.

"Sorry, I was just helping Calum alleviate his anxiety."

Peter looks back and forth between our faces, a quizzical expression present. "Obviously."

"What, are you jealous?" I tease, a goofy grin sliding onto my otherwise nervous visage.

"Honestly, no. It's just a hug — grabbing each other and acting like a sandwich, just without any of the exciting middle ingredients." Peter turns, hands on his hips, exasperated. "You can hug whomever you please, but just don't assume the world revolves around you."

_Did he just call me wheat?_

I keep messing it up for Peter and I can't stop myself. I'm always trying to make things right, but I eventually do something careless, getting us back to square one.

I'm reminded of the first time we met, when he pressed his knife to my neck in a threatening way, attempting to assert dominance over me, so determined to be in charge for once.

I rub the spot where he held that shining dagger to me, nostalgia filling my fingertips as I walk them across my skin in a sumptuous way, prolonging the dragging motions.

Calum rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, trying to fill the aroma of silence in the air. "We should get going," he suggests, stopping when he returns to the middle.

"Good idea," I agree, collecting my thoughts and pushing them aside like _a mind ninja_.

Shifting his messenger bag to near his left hip, Peter begins walking towards the direction of the Dome's outside, Calum and me trailing at his feet hurriedly.

~~~~~

After hiking for an eternity, we finally reach the dome, marked by Peter falling, once again, with a spirited smack to the face.

Picking Peter up from the ground without a single word, without a single gesture or expression of amusement, Calum moves towards the dome's edge and places his hands on it. The electricity swims all around him like art, like something I've only seen in an ancient museum from the pre-Community days; in these times, no one has the energy to create anything.

"Put your hands on it," Calum instructs, earning a confused look from Peter, still dizzy.

"Whatever floats your boat," Peter groans, slamming his hands on the dome.

"You, too, Florence."

Calum gives me a hopeful smile and I willingly oblige, softly putting my hands on the exterior.

Suddenly, the structure crumbles with a loud bang, electricity going haywire. I remove my hands quickly, dragging Calum and Peter's hands off as well.

A gaping hole is now present, obliterating the separation from the outside world. Rubble pours in front of our feet, with the remaining bits stuck in the dome at odd angles.

I step closer, peering into the gap, expecting something wild.

The dome had only made it look as though there was an expanse ahead of us, but, in fact, there is a city, teeming with people on their day-to-day activities.

I clear away some material, stepping through the hole with immense discretion, looking around myself to not get myself caught on anything poking out.

Tall buildings loom over our heads, Citizens of the Community slipping in and out through the doors. Magnificent greenery lines the streets, with all the same pattern on each — a boring square — but nonetheless alluring.

However grand it seems, with graceful appearances and amiable people, I realize it to be a delusion. An air of fright fills the town, something that would be unnoticed by newcomers. But as I spend more time here, I see that it should be truly alarming, not to be trusted.

"Epistylium," Calum whispers. "This is my Province."

"It's so beautiful," I comment. "So full of life."

"I hated it," Calum admits, much to my surprise.

My eyes fix on Peter, stepping out into the city, a fairly new placard stuck in the dirt next to him. Its rust red color makes me cringe — I've always hated that hue, ducking my head at stop signs.

 _Do not cross this line_ , it reads.

Even the civilians of the city had no idea what was happening behind the wall, only that they were instructed not to step beyond the sign. They're so wrapped up in their own lives that their curiosity was purged by instinct. Things must be stricter here.

A woman carrying a bright blue parasol comes scuttling over, an affrighted aspect displayed on her heavily powdered face.

"Is everything all right, dears?" she exclaims, adjusting her hair from her haste. Her voice is thick with worry, but mellifluous nonetheless. "I was on my way to a meeting, but then I saw this and, well, I figured I could be a little late."

"No, ma'am, everything's fine," Peter amends, beaming sweetly.

 _Ma'am_? I get the feeling that Peter used fake charm to weasel his way out of perilous situations — a survival tactic. He's a lot smarter than I give him credit for. Even Calum appears bewildered.

"Okay, yeah, that's wonderful."

"Have a great time at your meeting," Peter wishes, giving the woman a pleasant simper.

She scurries off, briefcase in hand, smoothing her skirt down in the back, trying her best to look formal.

"Sweet lady," Calum notes, nodding his head as he watches her dart inside the smallest building.

"This place is creepy."

I slide my hands up and down my arms; the aura of the Province alone is enough to send chills up my spine.

"Glad I'm not alone on that one. No one ever believed me when I told them." He furrows his brow. "They're weird."

"They're so formal."

"No, I mean all of the old ladies knitted me holiday sweaters." Calum stares at me with a dead serious look in his eyes. " _Every_ holiday."

"Sounds great," Peter interjects. "Have you got any to show us? I'd love to see you in one."

"I'll model for you if we make it out alive." Calum's voice falls, a dark ambience settling over our heads, consuming the glee of just a few moments before.

The sight of Calum in a pastel Christmas sweater, with elderly women circling him like vultures, poking him with their long, bony fingers almost makes me crack up, if it not for the rancor filling the area.

"We have to go," I implore, seizing Calum's arm and pulling him closer to the street.

The pedestrian's faces seem to eclipse as we pass, staring us down with disapproving glares. Suddenly, the notion that these people are compassionate flies farther out the window with each second.

"Hooligans," an old woman says.

"Weren't those the Evaluation Candidates?" a little boy points out, gesturing to us. He tugs his mother's arm to get her to listen.

"What are they doing?" a middle-aged man sputters.

"Take a picture; it'll last longer," Peter quips.

Calum hides his face, his all too real anxiety making a special guest appearance. He draws his arms closer to his sides, despondently pleading for the attention to fade.

"Headquarters are this way," Calum whispers, leaning close to my face and signaling to the tallest and sleekest building of the Province.

Eventually, we reach the end of the clump that has so inconveniently gathered to spectate.

The Community headquarters is a towering building, a huge shaft poking into the sky. It is a gleaming silver color, reflecting the sun perfectly. The panels are relatively small, only a few feet wide, but they are nevertheless abundant. Their texture seems to dip and elevate sporadically, casting shadows in unreachable places.

"What's our plan?" I ask, bouncing on my feet to confirm my readiness.

"I'll distract that spunky young woman at the desk there" — Peter nods to the work-enslaved clerk — "and you guys go in through the back. Calum, sneak into the laboratory. You can take a lab coat from an absent worker.

"Florence, you look around the facility, finding what you can.

"When I'm done, I'll try to find Director Damon and smite that peasant."

"Should we meet up by the entrance to the Dome, where we burst out like superheroes?" Calum advocates — we all nod in agreement.

I imagine Calum waiting by the entrance, without Peter and me if something goes wrong, anticipating our return all day and through the night, observing as the auroral presence of morning comes around and brings problematic hope with it.

"What if you die?" I ask Peter.

"Then I'm trusting you to raise me from the dead."

Peter swings open the door conspicuously, his arms outstretched with a welcoming smile cemented to his dirt-stained face. He sighs, clapping his hands together, as he glances at the miffed secretary.

_Oh no, what's he doing now? Hopefully not something strange like he usually does._

Peter's been making decisions that were clearly not thoroughly planned out, but sheepishly hides behind his hands when confronted about them later, acting like they weren't his fault — he usually blames me, but as far as I'm concerned, I didn't light the only bush we have on fire with only a twig.

"Janice!" Peter asserts, taking a quick look at her name tag.

"Can I help you?" she drawls, lackadaisically setting her pen down on her pad of paper.

"Janice," Peter repeats, stepping closer to her desk and peering in her eyes. "As a matter of fact, you can.

"I was just wondering" — Peter places a finger to his lips — "why everyone in this town is so very strange.

"On my way over here, they kept asking for my autograph, but they didn't say anything, of course. They were so in awe of me that they all stood in a big group to observe."

"Um, _sir_..."

"Now, Janice—"

"Sir, aren't you supposed to be inside the Dome? You're Peter Sparrow, right?"

"Janice, do you even know how presumptuous that sounds?"

"Sir, I'm not being funny."

"Janice, I am done with your crap."

Peter swings his fist directly into Janice's face, shattering one lens of her glasses. She lies there, paralyzed by the sudden impact.

When Peter assumes she's unconscious, he collects himself, brushing off his clothes. "Bye, Janice," he laughs, sashaying through the hall.

~~~~~

Calum slithers into the locker room and soon finds a pristine, white lab coat hanging on a hook among many lining the walls of the room.

Drawing it over his shoulders, he adjusts his glasses meticulously and slides out the door, breathing heavily from apprehension.

 _I love dry cleaned clothes_ , Calum says internally, attempting to calm himself down.

Doctors and scientists brush past him indifferently, minding their own business like the Community taught them to. These simple actions, however small, reduce Calum's heartbeat to a bit slower rate.

"Good morning, Doc," a lanky middle-aged man greets, flashing a toothy smile. His teeth are pointed in odd directions, his hair dense with grease, but Calum doesn't need to be thinking about that right now.

"Good morning," he replies shyly, keeping his head down and speed-walking by, his lab coat trailing behind him in a flurry.

A blue plaque nailed to the wall indicates the entrance to the main lab. Calum takes a look at it before peering through the small window on the door.

Doctors mill about, fiddling with tools, performing tests, some rookies spilling petri dishes on the floor and cowering from the advanced doctor's menacing glares.

Calum twists the doorknob warily, sucking in a deep breath before continuing inside.

The doctors address him casually, not bothering to look up from their work, only responding with a routine "good morning" and an impervious countenance.

"Hey, Doctor Furto, could you help me with something?" a lanky, young, blonde-haired scientist asks, correcting the crooked angle of Calum's name tag.

"Yeah, sure," Calum replies nonchalantly, though on the inside, he's burning with fear.

Calum follows the scientist over to a cramped table, on which various sizes of petri dishes, medical equipment, gloves, and other items.

"I need you to look into this new fungus we found."

He gestures to a dish with an odd-colored shape floating on the surface of the liquid inside.

"Fungus?"

Calum had never done so well in the fungus and bacteria unit of biology in freshman year, even though he spent all night studying for the assessments, but he's hoping for the best.

"Yeah, _fungus_." The boy draws out the syllables, indicating that he already has a low credited opinion on Calum.

"Okay, I'll get right on it."

Calum nods and the scientist leaves after giving him a pat on the back.

_What a cheerful and splendid gem he was._

Calum picks at the small lumps with the tweezers he mindlessly grabbed. Much to his astonishment, none of the scientists glance over to see a helpless kid fidgeting with their new fungus, but he's definitely grateful for that.

After about fifteen minutes of poking and prodding the fungus hopelessly, Calum sighs, giving up. He decides to receive more intelligence on the Community's plans.

Placing the tweezers gently back on the pad they originated from, Calum strides over to the boy from before, apparently named Doctor Gayle, judging from the plastic plate pinned to his coat.

"So what do you think the fungus is?" Calum challenges inquisitively, sliding up next to Gayle.

Light flashes in his eyes, excitement taking hold of him.

"Well, no one's ever asked me this before," he starts, shaking from elation. "But I think it was an alien that brought it from space and put it everywhere it could reach, and get this" — he puts his hands up, ready to share this breathtaking piece of news — "they're planning to come to Earth and settle."

_Is he an intern or something? The Community wouldn't pay someone with the scientific maturity of a pine cone._

"I was thinking it could be used for the Evaluation Candidates, or maybe even a new disease to, you know, keep those rowdy folks under control," Calum hints, prying the information out of Gayle slowly.

"Well that's what the head doctor says, but I find it terribly boring. I mean, come on! Where is the flavor?"

How much longer do I have to deal with this swine? I've had enough of them at school for eleven years.

For his freshman year science project that amounted for half of his grade, his prejudiced teacher, Mr. Charna, paired him with a boy who indulged in searching for things in his nose at every possible moment. Calum ended up completing all of the work, but he supposed that was a good thing — the kid most likely would've messed things up for both of them and left a little something behind on their report.

"Um... Yeah, I can see your point, but science isn't about taking something and mutilating it to fit your own personal aspirations."

Gayle merely looks blank, a malignant expression creeping onto his face after a few moments of silence between them. "Well I wouldn't call it mutilation..." he finally mutters, turning his back and returning to his work.

"I would," says a deep voice.

Another doctor has creeped up on them, looking like something out of a television program about drama in a hospital, with the main character being an attractive doctor that has no medical experience whatsoever.

"Oh, hello, Doctor Nabal."

He smiles at Calum, revealing sparkling, white teeth against tan skin. His dark hair sweeps down to his eyes in thick strands, having him flip it back like a supermodel.

"We were just discussing the purpose of that new fungus we found earlier this year. You know of it?"

"Yep, it's quite intriguing. Interesting points you have there, Doctor Furto," Doctor Nabal replies, winking at Calum suggestively. "I don't have any theories quite yet though."

Figured as much.

"I have to go to the restroom," Calum interjects, straightening his glasses and speed-walking out the door.

Once he gets outside of the lab, Calum leans on the wall, catching his breath. He had tried his best to keep his heart palpitations to a minimum, inhaling and exhaling as much as possible to circulate air. Being cornered by so much stress could've triggered a panic attack, but with all the sinister fate he's encountered, his body seems to have been numbed a bit.

Checking both ways for people, Calum turns right towards the bathrooms — at first he had told a lie, but he now finds them strikingly useful.

Pushing the door open the boys' restroom violently, muttering a comment about how it's 2173 and there still aren't gender neutral rooms anywhere, he hastily swings open the door to the second stall, locking himself inside.

Calum simply sits on the toilet seat, without doing anything, just to think and calm his nerves, though it's never worked in the past, when he had to present his projects at school. He begins to breathe rapidly, his heartbeat accelerating exorbitantly.

Stop it, please! Not now, not now, not now. We have to get through this. Please stop, please!

Tears rush to his eyes, pouring out onto his shirt mercilessly. A single drop lands on his name tag, clouding the engraved letters of his new-found alias.

Why am I crying? I didn't do anything, I'm just... Yeah, I'm stressed, but I can handle it. Please stop it.

When his body doesn't answer his silent plea, Calum kicks the stall door furiously, frustrated by the lack of sympathy that his tears possess.

I've always hated salt water.

When Calum was twelve, he took a trip to the beach with his family, but soon, he was swept away with the churlish waves, struggling to return to shore.

The water irritated his eyes and he was pretty content on the fact that he encountered a jellyfish who kindly greeted him with a sting to his left arm — no one believed him though.

After an hour of contending with the ocean, he finally caught a wave back to shore, where he found that his negligent parents had no idea he was gone.

"Are you all right?" a familiar voice asks worriedly, the sound echoing off the walls of the tiled bathroom.

Why do people always want to know how I'm feeling? I'm crying. How do you think I am?

Calum doesn't reply, only tucks his legs to his chest to wait it out, hoping the person will leave him alone soon. It doesn't take that long to ablute, or that's at least what he surmises.

He had become quite the professional at hiding in bathroom stalls, through agony-filled years at school and in public, where his mom forced him to be out in the open. She didn't think anxiety was a real thing, that he was just lazy.

"I know you're in here, Calum."

"Leave me alone, Peter."

"If that's what you want." Calum hears the lock click back and shoes scuffling towards his stall. "But that won't do any good."

Ever since Calum met Peter, he's always seemed so equivocal, leaving Calum to decipher the actuality of his phlegmatic phrases, but quickly, for Peter always moves on to something else in an instant.

"Please go away."

"I respect your manners, but no."

Why is he always so arrogant? I politely requested him to leave, but he's still here, tormenting me like he relentlessly does.

"As it happens, I ventured into the lavatory for the same reason you did: to recover from a close encounter. I'm not so different from you than you think."

Somehow, the thought of Peter Sparrow being remotely close to Calum terrifies him, judging from the things he says, the things he does, and specifically the things he has hidden inside his mind.

They're haunting, the mere thought of them, how they twist and turn, grinding his rationality to shreds, poisoning every bit of sanity he has, like it's antipathic in some way, like his brain tells him that he needs to be so mordant for survival.

"I don't suppose I should have worded it that way... The silence is torture."

Peter doesn't know torture like Calum does. He's the one who inflicts it on other people, but excludes himself. He doesn't understand how much his words affect everyone around him.

After everything he does, Peter then expects people to worship him, like his animosity somehow improved them. He is incredibly vain.

Calum doesn't respond, though he desperately craves to.

Anger suddenly surging through him, a virulent reply curls inside and Calum gets ready to spew it out. "Peter Sparrow, I hate you," Calum snarls. "You pretend to know what people are going through, but you don't. You never will. You're a fake and I hope I never have to hear your name at any point in my future." Words tumble out of his mouth, but he can't stop. His heart takes control of his mind, confessing the darkest opinions of Peter that he owns with no filter.

"You constantly bedevil everyone you meet, even when you should be mature enough to realize that they've already been through ample suffering at someone else's hands, or eminently their own.

"I'm confident in saying that I've never met a crueler person than you, Peter Sparrow. I'm glad that I'll be able to leave you once we get out of here. I never want to see you again."

"If that's what you choose to think," Peter acknowledges.

That's what I know.

He strides to the door, but doesn't push it open. He only stands there, waiting, collecting himself as if Calum had been wrong, which he was sure he wasn't.

I am not at fault, Peter Sparrow. Stop playing the victim.

"If you don't want any well wishes from me, at least tell Florence that she made a huge impact on my life, and that, if she really wants to, she can call us friends now. I think we both owe her closure."

~~~~~

A still figure lies at the end of the dimly lit corridor, twitching slightly in their own bodily fluids. Rushing over, fear blooms in my stomach as I fear the imminent truth: the dark form is none other than Peter Sparrow.

Dread twists in my stomach and a cry escapes from my throat as I press a hand across my lips. "Peter?" I whisper, but I receive no response. How could I? There's nothing I can do to prevent the fact that his last words to me would be those of hatred. "Say something!"

"Found you," Peter manages to push out, hoarse and muffled by the liquid sprouting from him.

His gravelly voice brings back memories of the times when the world beatified him, when he swam in the light twirling around him and the earth praised him for his unmediated qualities, instead of shoving the opprobrious ones farther down his throat.

Peter never became weary, even from walking a shocking amount of distance in a terse time period. His step would never falter; his only appetite was for keeping himself upright and reaching his destination. I've always wondered how he did it, altering his plans for each occasion.

Peter always clutched the raggedy doll whom he named Giuseppe tight to his chest, never letting him out of his sight. He felt that he had a responsibility to take care of the thing, however mangy and torn.

Previously, Peter sang and cried with the same intensity for both. He occasionally hummed unfamiliar tunes under his breath while absently toying with his fingers, his dark hair falling into his eyes, but he never swept it away unless he was nervous. He wept in my arms when he was feeling damaged and I stayed with him until he was mollified. But I judged him for neither, because he is not broken. I told myself that a long time ago.

Peter used to laugh with his whole body, causing me to realize that healthy does not mean thin, smooth-skinned, and physically in shape. It means eyes glimmering, chuckling and intending it. It means being proud of the elements stored inside yourself. It means gigging so wildly that the creases near your eyes return when you smile. And he did all of those things. But they were taken away from him.

If someone had told me a year ago that I could possess the ability to love someone so insane so dearly, I would've chortled in their face and told them to get lost. But now, I've come to the conclusion that it isn't Peter's mental state that turns me away (in fact, it's not even something that sparks an aversion); it's the concept that he still grasps the remaining humanity he holds. He fights for it. He fights for his life.

Even when Peter fails to recognize reality, when the poverty of his speech is so limiting, so rapid and slurred, he marches through; he keeps on going. He doesn't take breaks, he doesn't reward his body with the rest it desires, and he doesn't ask for help, which concerns me most of all. He's a fighter, no matter what opposing ideas he introduces to others.

Seeing him wounded on the field of battle, when he, himself, pointed out that I am a warrior, as described in my name, is crushing to me. The worst part is that he appears placid, accepting his death as a feature of the natural order, however unfair. He's only sixteen — he's not supposed to die like this, let alone be joyous about the cruel circle of life.

Peter's life was snatched away because he was simply the smartest and strongest out of us all. If he hadn't been chosen for the Evaluation, he wouldn't be in this mess, and therefore alive. Circumstances would not be so pressing. He could be free from the turmoil of insanity, from turning into a monster he fears.

Right now, Peter could be enjoying a relaxing day at the beach of the Lumen Province, or making popsicles with his friends. He could be experiencing a healthy relationship with someone that will take care of him, despite all of his flaws, someone who will hold him close to their own frame, someone who will love him for each and every mark on his body. He deserves so much more...but I'm not sure how much of it he can obtain.

I am nothing, but Peter is whole. He lends me a fraction of his power, leaving a trail of aptitude in its wake, but it's never enough to leave a substantial remain, for Peter is rapidly growing and I am hastily diminishing.

Even as the light leaves his eyes, the last trace of humanity flowing through his skin and bursting through to the air around me, I know one simple fact: Peter Sparrow is free. I may not have considered it previously, and maybe the idea wasn't present before, but now I understand, and I am sure in saying he will prosper.

Yet I continue to yell. "No, no, Peter!" I scream. He takes a long breath and his eyes flutter closed. "I told you that we'd make it out of here and you believed me! You have to get out of here. _With me_."

Calum kept his promises. Peter kept his promises. But why can't I keep mine? We got out of the Dome safely, yet I failed at this simple task. I was supposed to keep Peter alive. I was supposed to return him to his home, wherever that may be. Why couldn't I just do that?

Tears blur my vision, pouring down like a huge waterfall that crashes forcefully at the ragged rocks below, pooling in the dips of my hollow face.

I shake Peter's shoulders frantically, as if I could kick-start his heartbeat again, bring him back to life, as if such things were possible, as if I were a child again, as if I were that igorant.

_Well you're not a kid, Florence. You need to grow up._

I try for the fifth time, sixth, seventh. Pounding on his chest, forcing air into his lungs, with tears dropping onto his eyelids that will never be opened again. I take a moment to notice how delicate his lashes are, how they curl slightly, making him look like he's only resting; resting, however, in a stream of his own blood.

I notice a small piece of paper tucked in Peter's hand. A bit of blood splashed on one of the corners, but I pray that the message will still be salvageable.

Carefully, I unfold it so the damp material won't shred. Fear blooms in my stomach, apprehension clouding my judgement.

 _Did you hear the gunfire?_ it reads.

I clamp a moist hand over my mouth, my breath hitching on the overpowering sobs departing from my larynx.

Peter's Requiem. He warned me about this when he first revealed his stunning secrets to me almost a whole two weeks ago. He told me that soon, I would be able to hear the sporadic blasting noises firing through his head. I just didn't expect it to be this way.

Victory has always been a primary influence on Peter's goals. I thought he would finally be avenging all of the Citizens that have died at the hands of the Community. His highest ambition was to purge the land from the abhorrence it faces every single day.

The gunfire is supposed to be a symbol of terror, acting as an insignia for the evil that walks the earth. It never ceases until more lives have been lost, more blood spilled. It only ends in a massacre of innocent souls. _And it isn't fair._

The gunfire ripped through the vast territories, searching for its next prey, until it settled onto a simple boy from Cambridge, England, with nothing left but his own two hands and his antipathic nature. Peter did nothing wrong to deserve the fate he received. Sure, he made a few mistakes, but that's human. Human is what matters to me. To Peter.

Human is what kills you from the inside out unless you can control it. Peter could keep it contained. Human is what turns you to tears when the demeanor of the world shifts too dramatically. Peter did cry. Human is what forfeits the killer instinct to a perception far more worthwhile. Peter left his old ways. Peter shone in all of these areas, proving that he is just as human as the rest of us. And that's why the gunfire chased him.

"Hey, Braniac." The familiar voice sends chills up my spine, turning the whole hall into a meat freezer, in which I am his bait. I wipe my eyes fiercely and turn around to face him.

_It can't be him. He would never do something like this, especially when it's his friend he's after._

"That was really sweet of you to hold him while he died," Pan comments, clapping his hands slowly — rhythmically.

"You shot him." It comes out in a drawn out spit. "You shot Peter."

"Peter? What a nice name for a nice guy." Pan laughs. "And he was in my way, you see. Director Damon gave me direct orders and, well, I found it pleasurable to obey."

The impression that Pan isn't revealing the whole truth sneaks inside my thoughts, but why would he lie? The shaking feeling doesn't retreat however.

"I thought we were friends!" I start towards Pan, but he raises his blood-stained gun, stopping me in my tracks.

" _We're_ friends, yes. Him, not so much. I suppose you should've thought about that before you put your life in the hands of the Community. I told you not to leave! I told you not to get your hopes up because this isn't what you want. Well look at where it got you!"

Pan's words sting as I recall the events, how I wished so fervently for my name to be called in the Gathering Square, for an envelope to be placed inside my Post Office Box.

The gun rattles relentlessly in his clammy hands.

"I just wanted to be special," I whisper, choking on sobs. "That's everything I told you before I left, but now you're ruining it. I wanted something to be proud of."

"You can be special."

That's all Pan's ever told me, that I could be special right there at home. I should've listened to him; I should've trusted him. But the impact that Peter, Snow, and Calum made on me is irreversible.

The gun clatters to the floor as he dashes towards me, arms outstretched. I shy away, slamming myself into the cold, metal wall. Excruciating pain sprints up my back, leaving a piercing effect that strikes every two seconds.

_I've been shot. How could I have been shot? I didn't feel anything._

"Don't get near me."

"If you resist, I'll have to take you to Director Damon."

To be honest, that idea doesn't seem so horrible. It's why Calum made the decision to journey here after all.

I hold out my wrists and, with hesitation, Pan clamps handcuffs around them. Worry flashes in his eyes. Regret.

"I didn't want to do this," he says.

_And yet..._

"Pleasurable orders."

~~~~~

We meander down the dark hallways, shame filling Pan's mind, causing his shoulders to draw into a weary slump. I turn my head around to find that my shoes have been leaving distinct prints, dark red with dirt swirled together.

_At least they'll remember me._

Director Damon greets us at the end of the corridor, a grim expression stretched over her sleep-deprived face. I stumble as Pan pushes me towards her, a tinge of remorse still present in his actions. I don't suppose he'll forget quite so soon.

"Glad you could come, Florence."

"You killed your daughter."

"That is beyond the point." Director Damon's lips form a tight line, a clear sign of discomfort. "But don't you think that's a little harsh to say of me? I prefer to think that her death was a sacrifice to science, don't you?"

I shake my head slowly, causing her to frown slightly, before clasping her hands together, signifying that we're going to proceed to business.

"Go ahead and shoot me. I know that's what you came here for."

"Shoot you? Haven't you already had enough of that?" the Director hoots. "Besides, we need you for our final experiment, silly."

In all of the pamphlets and information guides I pored over late at night the day they were published, I never read a single thing about experimenting, or at least in that phrasing. The words made it seem so charitable and 'our duty as Citizens'.

"Experiment?"

"Allow me to explain."

_Okay, you know what? No, I'm done with your funky experiments. Stop being so vague. Just tell me what you mean without all of this careless, ostentatious coating._

A devious smile plays on her otherwise devious visage and her hand outstretches to invite me to her come along.

"It seems I have no choice, so yeah, let's do it."

I click my tongue, trying my hardest to be calm, with a tainted aura of rudeness — after all, she deserves much worse, but I can't deliver, at least not yet.

My feet set into motion to follow her, but all I can think is _we were all a test_.

~~~~~

Director Damon pulls open the doors to her heavily decorated office, matched with different antiques she no doubt pawned off of the remaining sellers from the outlying countries.

She must have taken them from fearful hands, begging not to be killed. Although, it was probably her faithful guards who carried out the mission — she obviously detests getting her hands dirty, judging by the state of this room.

One piece catches my eye, a sun dial from pre-Community times, tainted with rust spotting it. It's the only thing that doesn't match the color scheme.

Sea foam colored objects line the area, with piquant mango air freshener rapidly pumping into the gigantic chamber, delighting my senses; I've never smelled anything recently, except for Peter's acrid stink from hot days in the Dome.

I've never had a mango. They were restricted in 2155, a year before I was born, classed as luxuries that my family couldn't afford. The candles, soaps, lotions, etc. remained.

I cough, waving my hand in front of my nose to clear the scent from my general space.

Director Damon fumbles with the keys and locks on her desk, attempting weakly to pin my hands on the underside.

"The purpose of the Evaluation is to accommodate the Community's needs, administered in a safe environment, free of outside sources," she explains. "This year, our test was for something unique."

A hologram flashes beside me and I crane my neck to see it.

"The Outbreak, as we call it, is a new, lab-made disease used to keep the Citizens in line, per se." I cringe. "Some people are getting to many ideas that are...dangerous."

Her eyes gleam with worry.

"Anyway," the Director continues, "we needed to test it on people who display the desired characteristics of healthy academic and athletic proficiencies, or, in this case, you. You seem awfully quiet, Florence."

"I'm handcuffed to a table."

"I don't like your attitude."

"The feeling's mutual," I scoff. Director Damon scowls, taken aback by my blatantly inferior nature.

_It's working._

Keeping the government in control of everything? Am I supposed to be happy about this? I've seen what insanity looks like — it is not pretty.

"Each Candidate was given one part of the disease.

"First, there is sickness, pain beyond compare. Ideally, it causes amplified results of the common stomach bug, which is already ruthless to those without the vaccine. Of course, our scientists added a few things in for kicks. I think you know how exciting those are.

"Then comes insanity, watching as you lose your mind. This is my personal favorite, though I wouldn't mind refraining from experiencing it. It mimics schizophrenia in a way. Hallucinations, anxiety, jumbled speech. You know, the works. You had the misfortune of seeing that in your special friend, Peter Sparrow."

My eyes widen with surprise. "You knew about that?"

"But of course!" Director Damon chuckles jovially, almost care free, like her fate wasn't chained down, like my hands at the present moment. "What do you take us for? We pinned microscopic cameras and audio recorders to your clothes and near your eyes."

I run my fingers over my eyebrows and the portion of my face that the shadow from my nose covers, but I cannot detect anything. The Director watches me with close precision, somehow amused.

"Enjoying this, are you?" I cock my eyebrow towards a smug-faced woman. "I bet."

"Finally, there's death, self-explanatory, though sudden, as you've witnessed already. And—"

"What about me?" I interject, giving up my search for the hidden software in my head.

"I was just getting to that."

Director Damon sends me an annoyed glare, accentuating the bags under her eyes.

"Continue then. But maybe you should hurry — you need sleep after spending all night thinking about me."

"You, Florence," she starts wearily, "are the most prime out of all of them. You will receive the entire disease."

Fear dances across my face and I gulp rather loudly, attracting the Director's probing eyes, lit with sick anticipation.

"It usually takes two weeks for the virus to develop inside you. Until then, you will be kept in a sterile compartment and given food every other day to keep you free of the germs that we are able to eliminate. This is all for better results, you'll understand."

"Wait, what?" I yell, startling her.

Guards emerge from the hallway and grab my arms.

I struggle wildly, but I'm overpowered by the two men's uniformed mass. Both of them are extremely tall and hairy, to the point where mistaking them for a moose would be the kind of occurrence where the nearest person would squint their eyes and respond, "Yeah, I can see how you would think that."

I feel myself go limp as a tranquilizer sinks into my cold skin. Dots form around my vision, blocking it almost entirely. My retinas fail to collect adequate information from the world around me, but it becomes more arduous as they struggle. It's too late. I slip into unconsciousness.

 


	9. Insanity

_Deliritas Hospital visits are Monday through_

_Saturday 7:00 AM — 10:00 PM and on Sunday_  
11:00 AM to 7:00 PM. If an emergency occurs,  
these hours will not apply.

 _-_ Deliritas Hospital General Information _, page 2_

_~~~~~_

I awake to yet another room that blinds me with color (or lack thereof), this time white, with puffed leather squares adorning the walls. It's rather bland and quite ugly.

_I guess I was never an optimist. I prefer the term, realist._

I release an inhuman shriek and pound my fist upon the door, sealed tightly, blocking me from the outside world, where it seems so natural and full of life, but in here, it's just me and my thoughts, which frightens me immensely.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead and my knees wobble, sending me crashing to the ground in a heap, just like Snow did.

_First, there is sickness, pain beyond compare._

My head starts to feel fuzzy, as I become disoriented, crashing into the nearest walls as if they're a destination I am intent on arriving inside.

_Then comes insanity, watching as you lose your mind._

I know death is near, considering the brief time of and between the symptoms. Death is even nearer for Calum, I presume. His symptoms began way before mine and now have lasted far longer.

Where even is Calum now? The Community probably disposed of him, but I come to the conclusion that I will get no information on his whereabouts, at least not from any trustworthy doctors that hover around the room like vultures.

I'm supposed to remain sterile, though it wouldn't seem as though I could contain germs in my mind — but I guess it's possible. That's why the government created the Outbreak.

A whole disease to enslave the minds of their Citizens, people who confided in them as a refuge, who poured their life into accommodating the needs of their home that feeds off of their hope, hope, until recently, I believed to be placed well.

The Community is ruthless, though. They'll stop at nothing to achieve their goals. They split people apart bit by bit, like crumbs falling from a cookie onto the floor, where a domesticated house animal will surely pick them up and transport them elsewhere, until what was yours is no longer recognizable. And I suppose it happened to Peter. The anguished swallowed him whole, as I sat by, helpless, without a clue that there was anything going on inside.

_Peter Sparrow._

My stomach flares, bringing me discomfort at the highest level. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, though I feel terribly cold, goosebumps forming on my arms.

I rub my hand over them, familiarizing myself with the curves rising on the terrain of my skin.

"How did Calum endure this?" I shriek to no one in particular.

It's just me in here, alone to my own thoughts. The mere concept of it is enough to send chills up my spine, though I bet it's the sickness doing that.

I do believe there is a point where we stop caring. Where everything is numb. Where we touch, but we do not feel. And that's scared me the most about insanity, that I will have no sense of self anymore, that I will lose my links. It's not necessarily the mental physique that we fail to uphold, but rather the fact that there is nothing.

I have found that point. I told myself I wouldn't let go, but it all seems so simple now.

There is no daily struggle, only the screeching sound of my food being relentlessly squeezed through the door, then flushed with antibacterial sprays that require me to fold my torn shirt across my nose to filter the toxic air.

So, in fact, I am numb.

Peter is dead, and I protest the removal of that thought, through weary limbs, eyes circled with red from the lack of sleep and even hours of internal wailing. He's gone. I let go from him and now I know a mundane truth: every day I wake up and he's not there. He'll _never_ be there. There is no denying it. Not enough kicking and screaming will bring him back and soon, I'll be six feet under, with an unmarked grave, miles from Peter's.

Criminals don't get tombstones. Director Damon made sure of that.

~~~~~

Death is so rude. He takes everyone I care for, but refuses to take me.

He makes a fool out of me. I persist in conversing with them, but the doctors only whisper about how I'm getting worse, occasionally throwing worried glances my way as I rock back and forth, clutching my knees like they're the only things I have left — which, to be fair, is incredibly accurate.

Well what do they know? I aspire to be the one who goes down swinging when the rest of them have fallen, the one that stands tall after all the bloodshed. But my posture sucks.

 _Why are you so hard on yourself?_ he'd say. But he doesn't understand. No one does. That's okay, though. At least I have my knees.

~~~~~

One of the doctors pays close attention to me, more than usual.

He's young, with raven black hair and eyes the color of the sky on its most beautiful day.

He seems genuinely concerned with my health, but I can't trust him yet, though I desperately want to.

This particular doctor stays close to the door the whole time, sympathy flashing across his face. None of the other doctors even talk to him, like they recognize that he doesn't want to be disturbed, but he never comes in.

It's almost like he knows what it feels like. It's almost like he knows my story.

~~~~~

The strange doctor finally came inside today, to my utter disbelief.

I'm starting to get suspicious of him, like he sneaked in here and even the other doctors aren't sure he's supposed to be here. The way he acts suggests a difference in background, but it seems somewhat familiar.

I can't make out the letters of his name tag, though it's prominently displayed in my focus. The disease the government injected me with blurs my vision immensely.

"Take it."

A torn journal with pages poking out of every direction rests in his hand. I soon recognize it as Peter Sparrow's. A gasp rises in my throat and I quickly snatch it from him, saying my thanks with a slight nod of the head.

"I figured you'd make a lovely set of poems to record inside it."

However, I have no intention of filling it with anything other than tears and the scarlet blood that pours from my skin when I scratch myself too much.

"I wish you could be free." A sad smile plays on the doctor's lips.

"Me, too." My voice breaks as I gaze longingly at the messy book.

Nostalgia hits me like a tsunami, the first tear of many splashing on the cover. I watch it acutely, tracing my eyes over ever fold, ever corner, every line marked in the leather.

"I'll leave you to rest, or whatever it is that you do." He takes one last melancholy glance at me before spinning on his heel and slipping through the door.

~~~~~

There was once a girl who pondered death as I sat and read across the small, shady tree named after some old guy that I pretend to not know the name of.

She said if someone knows how they die, an angel will come and take care of them, give them unimaginable gifts. Bless them with endless splendor, shower them with affection, nurture them like their mothers did before they stressed about finances and other such problems, the things that come after retirement but still stick.

She led me to believe that conscious presence was important and we could find out way to a flowery meadow if we were good.

But where is the flowery meadow now that all the plants have died? She didn't say it would burn. All I see is fire.

 _Help!_ I would plead, but no one listened. No one was there. _No one cared._

No one understood how much it hurt, and if they did, they didn't do anything about it. The fire searing into me, branding me as its own was enough to drive me crazy. I hated it, I hated it so much.

The flowers only became black piles of ash, falling like rain. And I came with them.

~~~~~

It's Calum's fault. I know it now. If Calum hadn't wanted to have more useless insight, Peter would be alive.

We could've been out of here, could've even gotten out of the Dome and returned to our own Provinces, totally evading our prior mission.

Calum's plan was useless. It was a sound possibility that we could've escaped our boundaries and totally avoided the headquarters, going our separate ways and returning to our families, however limited.

We could have been jovial at all times — or at least how happy someone like me can be, but, regardless, it's more exceptional than the life I'm currently living.

Hate winds its way through my mind, turning every memory to acrimony. I can't help but let it control me. With my lack of energy, it's all I can do to stay viable.

_Calum did this to me._

_~~~~~_

Calum means dove. I remember learning about names in school. I told myself that if I ever had the fortune of meeting someone named Calum, I should cherish his resilience, but I knew it was a shot in the dark that I ever should find such a person.

My teacher said that we would have to dig through his reticence, with care and tenderness and welcome him into our arms.

"Be careful with fallen leaves. There could be a butterfly trying to hide," she had told us.

But where is he now? Is he soaring above the trees, or is he stuck on the ground with a broken wing?

~~~~~

_My life feels like infinity, but not in the way that most people would expect — that it goes on forever — but in the way that where it stops in unknown._

_But everyone wants it to end. They want to place a number to it. They want to keep it _controlled_ , with a desperate urge._

_Life is infinity. And I want mine to end._

_–Peter Sparrow's journal_

_~~~~~_

A blurry figure appears in my sight, materializing bit by bit. Soon, I can see that she is wearing a crystal blue ball gown. The dress fans out in the skirt area, creating a grand hoop effect. Her hair looks like it was curled professionally, a massive mountain of dark locks on her head. It seems like she was on her way to a palace from the fairy tales when she was interrupted to be brought here.

Snow.

"Hello, Florence," she says, smiling the same smile I know to be hers, before she was brutally murdered by her mother and her forces.

"How did you get in here? Weren't you dead?"

Snow chuckles cheerfully.

"Aren't you supposed to be sane?"

My face contorts furiously, but she brushes it off like it was a joke, but I, however, don't find it amusing.

"You're one of my hallucinations, right? I've been having too many of those lately, voices in my head as well."

"Why would you think that? _Don't you want me to be real_?" Snow's tone sharpens, as she leers at me.

"Of course, but I'm not so much able-minded. You're just a side effect."

" _Side effect_?"

"You're not even like the real Snow. You're my imagination."

A lamp that wasn't previously present is now clutched in Snow's hand, with her nostrils flared at the maximum rate. It surprises that me that such a climax could be reached. She grips it tightly and lobs it straight at my forehead. By some force, its path is averted to the wall behind me, erupting into blue smoke, which happens to be her favorite color, though I don't suppose it was a coincidence — it's something Snow would do, an unavoidable detail.

Snow shrieks wildly and disappears in a flash of green lightning — Peter's favorite color, though once again, not by coincidence.

I rest there for a moment, catching my breath.

_She wasn't real._

Though somehow I know she could've been.

~~~~~

Peter is okay. I can't remember how, but I know he is.

 _No, he's not_ , one part of me lectures. I will myself to ignore it, but it defeats me, like always.

 _You killed Peter Sparrow, and now it's going to kill_ you.

~~~~~

The walls of my cell are now covered in one simple word: dove. Written forward, backward, with different letters, with them all jumbled around, size varying drastically.

Hours of dragging my fingernails into the cushion material have led to the same message clawed over and over and I'm beginning to really like the improvement.

I'm sure the doctors will notice.

~~~~~

_Fear has me in a choke hold, but I haven't the faintest idea as to what I am afraid of, but it is there; and it is real._

_I have no perception of reality anymore. Everything is a blur._

_Time is fluctuating. Days are expendable. Days are _useless_. There is only alive and not alive. And that is important._

_–Peter Sparrow's Journal_

_~~~~~_

There is a wolf in my room, large, with jet black fur and icy blue eyes. Though his body resembles an effort of grooming, his hair remains to appear wind-blown, like he's trekked through the desert to find me.

I try talking to him, but I receive no response. He only watches, like he's waiting for something. I have nothing to give him though.

"Can I help you?"

The wolf remains still. It blinks now and then, but continues to observe my movement, however slight.

My previous suspicion that wolves can sense fear now turns to dust, for the creature only cocks its head to the side at each small development.

If this were at home, a wolf would be a terrifying abnormality and would most likely advance aggressively. The officials would get called in to take care of the disturbance, watching as the Citizens all scream hysterically and flee in fear, but I'm not scared of him; he gives me no reason to be.

I cast my eyes away for a moment, but when they return, the wolf's fur is shiny and matted with the dark blood trickling from his brain and passing through his ears.

The wolf begins to whimper uncontrollably. I cannot bear to look, so I turn my vision away, stuffing my fingers into my ear canals to block it out.

_Please, no, please stop. Why are you bleeding? Please stop. I can't take it!_

The whines become louder, earsplitting, with the ability to shatter the hypothetical glass, until they disappear completely with an abrupt stop.

I peer over my shoulder to find the dead body of Calum resting on the floor. He looks so peaceful, like he's merely sleeping, but I can tell he's gone forever.

Blood seeps from his head, pooling in a puddle like a halo as it swirls and mixes with his black hair, turning it to an insulting shade of brown.

My gaunt face reflects faintly in the small pond of metallic liquid, eerie and frightening from the ordeal the government has been putting me through.

I shriek, stumbling into the far wall, torn with my clawing excursion.

Curling into a ball, I rock forward and backward, attempting to drown out the horrid sight, biting my arm to alleviate the anxiety and trepidation plaguing my mind; it's all I can think about.

When I open my eyes and escape from the position, I find the sterile room as it usually is, Calum's body no longer present, leaving behind the pungent smell of toxic chemicals sprayed onto my food.

 _These are your worst fears_ , Director Damon says inside my mind, _and we have brought them here to you. Enjoy your stay,_ Florence _._

_It's the disease at work, not you._

_Oh, are you so sure about that?_ She cackles and vanishes from my brain.

With the technology the Community possesses, it is highly possible that it's Director Damon, but the thought is rattling; however, I can't seem to kick it away.

Just when I think all is well, three wolves appear right in front of me: one with a mix of black and brown fur and hazel eyes, one with brown fur and green eyes, and the one from before.

The brunette wolf frightens me the most, its gaze digging the deepest into me, messing with my rationality.

Emerging from behind the three comes another wolf with brown fur and eyes, sleek and daring.

She approaches me, her nose an inch away from mine.

I can see the universe in her eyes, like fire and anguish mixed together. I feel like I should be appalled, but I only stare deeper, intrigued.

This is the most penetrating thing I've seen in a while, clouded in self-hatred, for she has seen what I have seen; she is a reflection of me. And that is a rattling thought.

Water cascades down my cheeks, but I cannot control it, and I know not what provoked them, only that it is necessary to understand this creature.

"You've seen so much," I whisper, stroking the wolf's muzzle.

She nods solemnly. The other wolves have their heads bowed, their eyes now shimmering with the same image of the galaxy and those beyond.

I press my fingers to the wolf's forehead and a bright light leads me to shield my face with my hand.

In an instant, the wolves are gone and only the padded room remains.

Deep, snarling sounds fill the space and I clamp my arms over my ears, but I can't block it out.

_These are your worst fears._

Blood rises from my leg, a bite-like incision now profusely visible. More of them appear on my whole body, revealing the bone on certain ones. Excruciating pain is all I can think about as it sears its way into my judgement and all I want is for it to end. For all of it to end.

I screech maniacally, but the sound doesn't rebound off the walls like I expected it to. It merely stays inside my own head, repeating over and over, but no one else can hear it.

 _The hatred of your friends really digs_ deep, _doesn't it?_

"Stop!" I cry, but the agony proceeds.

I swat at the invisible creatures, but it's no use. Tears well up in my eyes, spilling onto my wounds, which causes immense stinging, stinging beyond compare, stinging that I only want to be free of.

"I know what you are and I'm not afraid!"

Immediately, the growling becomes inaudible and the injuries seal back up, a sight so gruesome that I wouldn't mind forgetting it.

 _My, my, how_ courageous.

"You're not real, just a reiteration inside me."

_You're so quick to jump to conclusions. Give me a moment to dazzle you._

_Foreboding knots in my stomach, my heartrate hastening swiftly. Butterflies fly all around, like animals trapped in a cage, violently attempting to escape — like they've been in there for far too long._

Color flashes before me, a view of Calum gripping a small handgun, his whole body shaking with fear. The sleeves of his shirt are stained with dried blood and his eyes are pitifully heavy.

_No, no, don't do it._

He raises the weapon to his temple, squeezing the trigger slightly, but not enough to fire. He seems gravely nervous, scared to shoot, but scared to remain in this world. Calum straightens himself out and presses the muzzle closer to his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, saying one last goodbye.

A loud noise erupts and Calum's body falls limp and motionless to the ground with a loud thud, a sound I've always known as tragic, after the incident when I was young.

It happened so quickly.

My heart beats rapidly, pushing Calum away from my thoughts with all the power I can find.

_Now wasn't that truly spectacular?_

_Instead of Director Damon's voice, however eerie, it molds, shifts, changing into something I recognize to be my own._

_Stop_ , I reply.

_As you wish. I'm getting tired._

All the terror deteriorates in an instant, but I still can't help but wonder if that wasn't a hallucination.

_Can the government see inside my brain?_

Ideas spiral through my head, mostly unkind, of what the Community will do to me and those who are remotely close to me.

_This is not a healthy life. I just want to go home._

Tears slip from my cheeks and land on my dirty clothes.

I liked the place where I could be free, where my mom would always be behind the screen door to the house, and my dad would always be cooking in the kitchen.

I like the secretive places.

~~~~~

The images I have seen today are beyond compare.

Director Damon showed me my worst fears. But, in fact, it is not the individual occurrences that terrify me — it's the realization that the Community can create them in front of my eyes.

Calum could be dead.

Through all of my dreading, my unsolicited terror spreading through my whole body, arresting me in an instant, Calum could be zipped up in a body bag, then taken and thrown in a six-inch hole.

I could be the only survivor of this war.

I sink against the cushions of the walls, letting out a dubious sigh, laced with parlous lamentation.

After all I went through to protect Calum, Peter, and Snow, they could all be gone. They could be singing each other melancholy lullabies to make them fall asleep, because after the terrors they've found, rest is rare.

I can't decide if they want me to survive — an act of vengeance against the Community's kyriarchal values — or if they want me to let the Community poke and prod at me like an unsuspecting ragdoll.

I suppose they've had enough of that by now. But then again, they could be angry because I never got my turn at paroxysms in intervals inside the Dome.

Now that they have me trapped, I'm not sure what else they desire. My head on a platter, perhaps? How quaint.

~~~~~

Dreams are so different from the truth, I come to find.

One moment, I could be saving the world from mutant ants, then the next I could be walking through the unfamiliar cobblestone streets of the outlying countries. Improbability is virtually nonexistent.

Dreams are a universe that belongs to us, and us alone. No one tampers with them and I'm safe until I wake up in the morning, or maybe in the middle of the night for some unknown reason and I'll spend a long while trying to fall back asleep.

Dreams are imperative for imagination. Dreams are my escape.

Sometimes, however, I encounter nightmares, chilling experiences with a dread–filled base.

Very rarely, there are lucid dreams, where you know that you're asleep, where you realize that everything is fictional. That, of course, is the most adequate place for nightmares to occur, but unfortunately, mine don't.

The truly terrifying aspect of nightmares is not necessarily the event that transpires, but how real it feels, like a test to observe if you know yourself well enough.

My worst nightmare was simple — a robber broke into my house through my bedroom window. Most everyone dreams about that scenario.

But I could hear my parents talking downstairs, with the television playing, but both were the exact volume that I remember them as.

The sliding of the window was the same as I had heard repeatedly when my parents suggested that I get some fresh air from outside circulating in my room.

The robber's footsteps were the same volume I expected them to be. He was my dad's height and size, so obviously he sounded the way my dad did when he tucked me in at night with a hug.

The radio I keep on at night was playing faintly in the background at the precise amplification that I always set it to, even performing the songs that always play on my favorite radio station.

The diplomacy of it all was thrilling, petrifying more like. The way the dream went on, it was so realistic. It wasn't the type of dream that makes sense when you're having it, but you wake up and question the verisimilitude of it. It was the kind that should be feared because of its naturalness.

Is this a nightmare? Because it seems real. Everything is acute, just the way I feel life should be.

Just the way that should be dreaded.

~~~~~

"What if babies run everywhere because they see something chasing them?" I ask Chess, looking up at her with hopeful eyes as I fiddle with my clothing.

"I suppose it might be possible," she replies, crossing her arms across her chest, getting dangerously close to her stomach wound. "Babies don't possess the ability to communicate clearly to us, so how would we know?"

I shrug, my face contorting into that of a thinker. "I was thinking that when they become older, the monster assailant gradually becomes kinder and kinder, until they transform into what parents call imaginary friends."

Is Chess an imaginary friend? She appears real, but her whole existence could be illusory, just like everything I've been witnessing in this room. I haven't yet mustered the courage to reach out and touch her arm, validate her credibility, so I am left with more questions than answers. She scares me more than the real Chess.

"When they reach adulthood, or a state where they grasp the concept of tangible acquaintances, and maybe have a few of their own, the monster disappears from view and burrows inside them, turns into their developed personality."

"I had an imaginary friend once," Chess comments, her voice falling lower than I've ever heard it. "She called herself Fleur Dellafoi. I always thought it a weird name."

The idea that Chess could've ever experienced a fictitious best friend is stunning to me, for some reason. She always seems so...independent.

"My brother, Ezra..." Chess' words skid to a halt, "he didn't approve of Fleur. He always thought of himself as my protector, even though he's only a year older than me.

"Truthfully, Fleur taught me some things that shaped whom I am today. I'm glad I had her, even if Ezra wasn't."

"I wish I had an imaginary friend," I murmur, sliding my thumb over each finger individually like some kind of harrowing task. "Someone who exists only inside my mind." I glance to Chess, whose eyes are tracing the stitching keeping the cushions fixed to the wall. "Though, I suppose I have that now."

Chess's gaze swoops to me, locking me inside like the room in which I am trapped with her. Anger and questioning burn on her face, painting her portrait with a brush of vivid experiences, a brush of hallowed stories. The blood from her stomach taps to the ground in a puddle as though the remnants of a sink's apex. The room is still. "What you have, _Florence_ ," she spits out my name with such malice, her tongue pressing against the back of her shining teeth to lace each syllable with poison, "is someone to keep you company. Now I'll go out on a limb here and suspect you're in need of someone to catch the echoes rebounding against the chambers of your head. You're in need of _me_."

The cell is quiet, lonely ghosts of her words darting back and forth, running circles around my dirtied feet, seeking refuge in my ears.

"You're right, but that doesn't change the fact that you're not real."

Chess winces from the impact of my accusations. She turns her vision away from me, towards the red mark streaking down her front that compels her shirt to stick with it. "I don't appreciate what you're implying."

"You and I both know you're not supposed to be here. I don't know if you're my imagination, or if you're actually Chess, and, by some miracle, are standing in front of me when you should be seeking medical attention."

Chess doesn't respond, merely stares at me with her mouth drawn in a tight line of apprehension and contemplation. Her jaw clenches while her eyes search the room for something to hold her focus.

"I don't know what your expressions mean!" I wail, tears jumping to my aid. "I can't decide if you're a piece of me or not! I'm so indifferent towards everything that I don't really care what happens to me — it's all just a black hole of one existential crisis after another. I don't even feel sick anymore."

In my attempts to differ my hallucinations from reality, the pounding headaches and nausea have faded, hushed into the isolated corners of my brain in a trick to assert dominance, though the fluctuating temperatures have remained prevalent, acting as a reminder of feeling so frigid when rage is still rushing through my veins.

"There's nothing left. So while I waste away in my own bitterness and phlegmatic outlooks on life, I'm greeted by you, holding a knife to my throat and looking for answers which I cannot give."

"Metaphorically—"

"I don't even care. Everything's so literal in presentation and so fictitious in perception. I'm done fighting with you. I'm tired. Of everything."

Chess nods, solemn.

"I'm waiting to go home."

~~~~~

_What truly is the end of darkness? It is never revealed, for darkness is limitless, abstract._

_A hand can slice right through it, though sometimes the hand cannot be seen. It will vary, for darkness has shades._

_Darkness is like a blanket that covers reality. We can't view anything in it, but we know something is hiding._

_It makes us afraid. In fact, we are all still children with the belief that there are monsters in the dark. And I suppose there are._

_The monsters are us._

_–Peter Sparrow's journal_

_~~~~~_

Apparently, it's been two days already. The doctors came in with warm water, hard rice, and stale, brittle bread, a sign to restart my jumbled forty-eight hour count.

_One, two, three four._

They pull the door closed softly, eyeing me the whole time, as if they can't simply view my actions on the cameras planted in the corners of the ceiling, a rare discovery from yesterday.

_Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one._

A sharp pain fills my head and I count more rapidly, a way to possibly soothe my nerves, though I haven't been doing so well.

_Forty-seven, eleven, sixty-nine, three hundred ninety-two._

_It's out of order!_ I shriek inside my mind, but I can't think straight. Everything is mixed around.

On the inside, it's hectic, but on the outside, I cannot force myself to move.

The doctors cannot hear my screams.

~~~~~

The thing about insanity is that no one knows what it looks like, what it _feels_ like. The only person who knows the experience is the one who is conditioned to a mentality of pandemonium.

Most would believe it consists of agonized wails, it's not so much the noise that turns you; it's the silence — the real reason why we scream. Days of sitting in an area, where there is nothing.

The doctors only observe. They refrain from assisting me. They can't hear the silence.

But silence is not the lack of sound. It is much more than that.

Silence is the pounding in your head, the kind you can't hear, but you know it's there. It's the emptiness you feel inside your chest, the cries for help that never pass your lips.

Silence is insanity.

~~~~~

I don't know whom I am. I have no recollection of what has been, what will come soon, or what is transpiring currently.

My eyes are flooding and I hate it. I don't know what it is. _Make it stop._

Who are these people who surround me? Where am I? I want to go home, wherever home is to me.

Am I going to die?

~~~~~

In the end, all but one of us questioned our sanity. Calum was first, then Peter, then, finally, me.

Snow was the only one that was spared. A tingle of respect compliments Director Damon, even from her agrestic schadenfreude.

She killed her daughter, but she didn't watch her daughter kill _herself_ by tearing her life apart piece by piece, like tearing the wings from a butterfly.

~~~~~

Metal grinds upon metal as the door to my cell swings open with a screech when it bangs against the wall. It damages my ears, makes me want to pull my hair out, but it's either my sickness or a sensory overload — I'm rather hebetudinous, though that's entirely the Community's fault.

_What are they doing? It hasn't been two days yet. Why are they in here? Did I do something wrong? What's happening?_

I've grown accustomed to assuming I've done something or the doctors need me for tests when that door flies open off-schedule. The way I think now has waves of bursting anxiety rippling through me.

I throw my head around rapidly, attempting to collect clues, but it's only me for the time being, though not for long.

Pan steps through the tall frame and halts. Upon taking a quick look at me, his eyes wrinkle with sadness.

"It's about time," I murmur to my hands.

Pan's countenance isn't as disheveled as my own, but it comes strangely close. His body appears pale, like an ivory shade of white, though he assured me it would never be possible ("I'm Japanese — I don't turn the color of snow, weirdo.") and his cheekbones are emphasized by his lack of proper nourishment. He is no longer a confident person, but a distant shell of a being, or perhaps a nazzard, which seems to be his favorite term. He looks like me without a mirror.

The Community did this to him, didn't they? Pan should've known not to trust these people, chiefly after they manipulated him into murdering an innocent person and expected him to live with himself like it was nothing.

"The sight of you makes me depressed," I admit. "Almost. I think the whole thing going on inside my body makes up for it."

Stomach pains and paroxysms keep me busy during the day and all through the night. I rarely acquire the means for sleep, but the doctors decide to interrupt me whenever possible, sleep-deprivation an asset to their studies.

"You're about to die," Pan reminds me. "Stop making jokes."

He's right — this isn't a time for jocularity — but I really couldn't care less. After all the trauma I've been through, I deserve to have a little fun through insinuation.

My eyes flick sharply up to Pan, rage leaking from them. "Take pleasure in my existential nothingness like you did before."

Pan cringes, shutting his eyes tightly as if he's about to be hit, like my words are a tangible force against him.

"Look, I didn't want to—"

"Coward." I draw out the syllables as much as I can, to increase the pain I inflict on him; it's only fair, after all he's done.

"Is your ego damaged yet?" I ask grimly. "You care so much if you're emasculated. It's funny really. Couldn't see you at any time with lipstick on, even if your life depended on it."

Pan fumbles for the correct words to say, but ends up choking on them, as his eyes search my face desperately for answers. He doesn't get any, of course. He's slipping.

"Why are you acting like this?" Pan finally croaks out. "All wicked and malicious."

"Find out," I reply, running my tongue over my teeth, trying my best to intimidate him, like it's a game that we're playing. I deduce I'm winning, by the state of his angst-covered face. "Find out," I repeat. "Find out." I say this over and over, until it becomes a chant; the volume increases each time, like I'm slowly losing my sanity with each word.

Pan backs into the wall, grasping the handle of the door furiously and shaking vigorously. I've terrified him. I hope he knows the monster he's created. I hope he realizes that the same thing will happen to him. I hope he never returns here again.

I suppose he thinks I'll make a leap towards him, but I refrain from it. The chanting alone is enough for him to run like his life depends on it.

Eventually, an administrator unlocks the door and Pan trips over his feet in his mission to get through, topping it off by slamming me inside for another day in solitude.

He leans on the outside of the cell, breathing heavily, while the administrator gives him confused glances. Pan looks as though he could be the one being given the disease, but I think he's content with the way things turned out — he's getting his comeuppance, just like I had planned.

"Are you all right, son?" the administrator questions, fingering a plethora of medical tools to implement on Pan (in the occasion that he is, in fact, the patient), who gives a quick and confirming nod.

"Begin the memory wipe."

~~~~~

The morning after the fearsome encounter with an old friend, Director Damon pays a long overdue visit to my quarters.

Today, she's dressed in a sea foam green pantsuit, reflecting on her character — as I see it — immensely. It appears as though her office threw up on her; too bad the antiques didn't fly into her face though.

"You have proven very useful in our studies, Ms. Mayfield," she praises, taking my bony arm in her hand and leading me outside, "but we need you for one last thing."

I had been given a change of clothes last night and my white gown now swishes when I walk, to my liking. With my spare hand, I smack the excess material back and forth. When I notice how much it annoys Director Damon, I increase the rate and volume of my wambly exercises.

"As you know, memories can be easily altered." I listen attentively, though I couldn't care less. "I advise you to keep yours relatively close." She chuckles. "But then again, this next part wouldn't work!"

I laugh hesitantly. "Great, great."

"So we're going to wipe your memory of this whole experience."

I do a double take. "What?"

I had read about standard procedure for criminals in first grade, but I had never seen anything about memory wipes. Did I miss the paragraph? Am I not an ordinary criminal? Or is this just new?

"We cured you this morning, so you should be ready for the procedure." After spotting my petrified gaze, she adds, "Don't worry; it won't hurt a bit."

"That wasn't my issue."

I feel a dart puncture my neck — still painful — and again I fall to the floor.

_Here we go again._

_~~~~~_

Calum visits me on the operating table, but I can't make out if it's reality or not, but he looks completely fine, like he's well-fed and hydrated. His ebony hair sticks up in places after just getting out of bed, or whatever it is he's sleeping on. He smiles, with a face marked with lines from resting on a textured surface for too long, but I can't help but wonder if they're actually scars.

His eyes grow with concern, approaching one of the doctors to ask me one simple question. "How are you, Florence?"

"I'm okay." Finally, that's the truth.

I don't know if it's better to forget. I've seen too much; the turbulence of war through a child's eyes, loss beyond compare, the turning of a sane man into a nervous wreck.

Twice.

Is it cowardly to accept this as my fate and be glad about it? Probably. But I don't care. I stopped caring a while ago.

It seems so realistic that I should never return to the time I spent in the Dome. How could I lose sight of the ferocious girl trapped in a petite body? Or the kid with hidden secrets who was more courageous than I have ever known? Or even the sarcastic British boy who took a turn for the better?

_Tell me I won't forget._

Tell me I won't forget the bravery and sacrifice they have shown, trooping through the heartbreak of their lives.

But I have to. The last piece of me is burning bright, and I shall not douse the flame. It will stay until the light leaves my eyes, until I am weak and fragile.

The spark is growing. And he is called Dove.

 


	10. Epilogue

**ONE YEAR LATER - 9 MARCH, 2174**

 

 _If the Evaluation planned for a specific year_  
does not accommodate the needs of the  
Community, next year's Candidates must  
fulfill what has been ruined.

 _-_ Basics of the Evaluation _, pamphlet back side_

_~~~~~_

"Esther, what are you doing?"

"There's something stuck in the ground. Little bits of paper, I think."

Through the sand, Esther can see fragments of papery material sticking up, displaying their frayed corners as the tiny specks throw themselves at them.

"We don't have time for this. We need to get going."

"Hold on, Aislin. I'll just collect them and piece them back together later. Go back to Mimoza for the time being. Check on how she's doing."

Aislin has always been so timid, worried about any slight imperfection in something's quality, so she's always nagging Esther about getting things done quickly so she won't have to think about it any longer.

Esther tries her best to accommodate Aislin's persisting needs, even when they can be so tedious or uncomplicated, yet Aislin cannot seem to muster the strength to perform it herself.

On the contrary, Mimoza has the demeanor of a lion; she's fierce, strong, and unrelenting. However, with the sickness the Community put in her, she's becoming more and more like a simple house cat, an animal who sleeps sixteen hours a day.

It's a shame what happened to Mimoza — she is so beautiful, with dark brown hair spiraling around her head in those gigantic layers the hairdresser always asks about; her eyes are a lighter color of the night sky, but soft like milk; her eyebrows are medium sized, pointed at the end, resting on a texture the color of coffee with disproportionate amounts of cream. She doesn't think anything of herself, though Esther wishes she would.

Mimoza is also incredibly shrewd, always babbling about the newest innovations in science and the books she's read recently — it's a colossal list.

Mimoza could've had a bright future, were it not for the Evaluation. They're only here because they are required to clean up last year's Candidates' mess, achieve the obligation they were placed with, including no idea of the Community's motives.

There used to be four of them: Mimoza, Esther, Aislin, and Aeron. They were content, only having to deal with survival in the scorching sun, but after a few days, something changed and Aeron dropped dead to the ground unexpectedly.

After that, Aislin become completely stone cold. She wouldn't listen to Esther or Mimoza and rarely showed fervor for anything, even things that she had seemed so passionate about.

Gathering the scraps of paper by the tall building next to her and shaking out the sand from them, Esther stuffs them in her messenger bag for later use, along with the tape she handily sneaked into the Dome with her.

~~~~~

"You don't have to wait to piece it together," Mimoza says once Esther and Aislin return to her position on a stray log. "You can do it now. I'll watch. I've always had a knack for puzzles — at least that's what my mother told me."

"Are you sure?"

Esther's eyes widen in surprise, but Aislin's are growing to the size of the moon. Mimoza had pushed her limits, but she doesn't say anything — Mimoza is dying after all.

"Yeah. I'm weak anyway. It's not like I can move anywhere."

Mimoza laughs heartily, but Esther and Aislin don't even move a muscle.

Mimoza is so relaxed about her imminent doom, while Aislin rushes around, trying to find a cure, and Esther just tries to do her own thing while subconsciously dreading it. It makes Esther wonder if Mimoza is even...glad about her fate.

Esther removes the flap of her messenger bag, revealing the contents. She grabs the tape in one hand, the pieces in the other, and closes the flap by shaking the whole object until the momentum and force do the work.

Laying the fragments out on the log next to Mimoza, Esther begins to study them intently, Mimoza smiling like she knows a secret Esther doesn't.

"These two go together," Mimoza tells her, pointing to a large piece and a medium piece in the middle of the array.

Esther slides the pieces together, locking them as one as she glances back at the work at hand.

Aislin looks quizzical, folding her arms across her chest. Esther can tell she's thinking about solving the puzzle, but she doesn't dare to say anything, because she knows Aislin won't admit it out of her own free will.

After a few seconds of looking, Esther's shoulders shoot up as she selects two pieces, pushing them together slowly.

"These five fit together," Aislin finally speaks up, not bothering to uncross her arms until she's arrived close enough to examine the pieces.

She gestures to the fragments as if to ask Esther's permission before connecting all of them, using the tape to keep them all stuck together permanently. She does the same with the other matches, somehow knowing they're officially correct.

"Good job," Esther congratulates her, but Aislin ignores her as usual, only taking a step back before crossing her arms once more in indifference, a placid expression glued to her symmetrical face.

"Can we hurry this up, wayward children?"

"Aren't you even a bit curious as to what's written on the paper?" Mimoza asks, raising a pointed eyebrow defensively.

"Of course I am. That's why I helped you tots."

Aislin isn't very vehement about anything much, except for her perfectionist instincts being fulfilled properly. She mostly stands off to the side, scowling, as Mimoza and Esther complete other tasks that they find interesting and worth their time; they can usually judge it by waiting until Aislin calls it "wasteful of your days and energy".

After fifteen minutes, the final scraps are put in place by Mimoza, taping them down expeditiously, as if a hand would snatch her fingers if she didn't do so in that manner.

Esther peers closer to decipher the faded words on the page, though it's rather tedious — the paper looks as though they performed extensive surgery on it.

"Can you see anything?" Aislin inquires, even looking invested this time.

"The letters are messy and unformed, while the color is tattered...but I think I can make out a few words, but that's it."

"So what you're saying is we wasted thirty minutes on your pointless adventure just to find a couple of useless words?" Aislin exclaims, furiously shoving her hands on her hips.

"I wouldn't call it wasted. I think it's still a cool artifact. It's probably from last year's Evaluation. I don't know how they could've gotten the paper though—"

"No," Aislin snaps, snatching the paper from Esther and ripping it up indignantly, her fingers hitching on the adhesive tape. "I've had enough of those Candidates from the previous year. They're the reason we're in this mess."

"You do realize that if they had succeeded, we would've just been forced into another plan, just different? At least we know some of the things relevant to this experiment to help us. We wouldn't understand nearly as much if there hadn't been previous Candidates here, which there won't be in a new operation," Esther retorts imperturbably.

Aislin scowls, storming off only to return a few seconds later, once she's figured out that there's nowhere useful for her to go.

"Back so soon, are you?" Mimoza chuckles, coughing afterwards.

"You're useful to me. Especially after Aeron. He was actually funny, but I guess I'm stuck with you dimwits and your bathroom humor."

"To be fair, not once — not _once_ — did I ever make a bathroom joke. Neither did Esther, to my knowledge," Mimoza says, putting her hands up in defense.

"I didn't," Esther murmurs.

"You can put your hands down, Mimoza," Aislin sneers. "This argument is over with. My original conclusion stands: you are blockheads."

Considering Aislin is the one who won't take any input from others, her head is more like a block than either Mimoza's or Esther's, but no one dares to tell her that simple fact that may have slipped her attention.

"If you say so," Mimoza replies earnestly, leaning back down on the log now that the puzzle pieces have been removed — yet shredded once more, though they now rest on the ground.

"Mimoza, we have to keep moving. We don't have time to be sleeping."

"What do you mean? We have plenty of time. Where are we supposed to be going anyway? Nowhere. The Community is merely observing the disease manifest inside me, that's all. You and Esther don't have to be doing anything. They just put you here as buffers."

Aislin seems taken aback by Mimoza's comment, drawing in her breath as she blinks in confusion.

"Buffers? We were chosen because we're the smartest sixteen year-olds in all of the Community's Provinces."

That's the whole point of the Evaluation — to select the most equipped children to participate in the Community's prerequisite tests for that year. They range from diseases, like this year, to testing genetically engineered food, like a couple years back.

"Which makes you the _best_ buffers. It's like that one girl, Florence, from last year. She was a buffer — a buffer who received the whole test after she got out of here, but a buffer nonetheless."

"I told you, I don't want to talk about last year's Candidates. They were completely insane, probably more so than the one who got that part of the Outbreak."

All of the Citizens of higher society had learned about Florence, Calum, Peter, and Snow through the police officers stopping by their houses to see if they're all right, if the Rogues had injured one of them. Thankfully, none of them did anything tyrannical like the government told them they would.

The Community says there are no classes, but the Citizens all know that they treat the wealthier people better. Everyone tries to volunteer to obtain a higher class, but the government pretends like they don't notice and leave the surprises and protection to the richer Citizens.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with being a buffer," Esther interjects, awarding her a malevolent scowl from Aislin. "At least we don't have to feel sick to our stomach all the time, or even _forget_ our sense of time as we lose our heads."

"We don't have time for this."

Aislin grabs Esther's bony arm and lifts up Mimoza forcefully, causing her to wobble on her feet as block dots surround her vision.

"We have to explore _now_ , before it gets dark. Do you hear me? I'm not letting the same thing that happened to Aeron happen to you, especially Mimoza."

"You're just upset because you look like her, and you can't stand it, because your precious Aeron died because of her. You blame yourself for his death because you parallel her exactly."

"I look like whom?" Aislin flares.

"You know, Florence Mayfield."

Aislin's brown hair, falling to the end of her shoulder-blades, her brown eyes set in a medium-sized plate, and her small, curved nose resemble Florence like no one's ever seen before.

"That's _enough_ , Esther!" she shrieks, letting go of Esther's arm and allowing her to fall to the ground in a heap as Mimoza comes tumbling down on top of her.

"Maybe you shouldn't have provoked her," Mimoza whispers discreetly, using the last bit of strength to remove herself from the body flattened under her.

"You think?" Esther quips.

She stands, brushing off her clothing promptly, biting her lip as she stares at Aislin, still fuming from the spiteful words.

"Yeah, we should get going."

Esther throws a disconsolate glance down at Mimoza, still looking helplessly from the ground. Outstretching her arm, Mimoza grabs it, using all of her few minutes worth of regenerated power to lift her legs to a standing position.

She and Esther start walking off into the distance, with Aislin finally content, sighing as the last trace of the shredded paper disappears forlornly beyond the horizon, never to be seen again — forgotten, just how the Community likes things.

But they never reallymade a difference, did they? **  
**

**ONE YEAR LATER - 21 JANUARY, 2175**

~~~~~

 

 _In the occasion of a corrupt Director, precautions_  
must be executed in order to protect the Citizens.  
That includes a public execution of the Director  
by guillotine, firing squad, or poison.

 _-_ Emergency Procedures for the Community _, page 33_

_~~~~~_

Kora Damon stares at the bleak, white walls of her cell. There's nothing remarkable about it, nothing abnormal, either, but it seems to be the center of her attention.

Dread roots itself inside her stomach, turning everything sour, including the only delightful memory inside her brain — her daughter, Snow, being able to be free of the Community's tight and controlling grasp.

That's why she was chosen, after all. Kora had always strived to educate Snow, help her to become one of the Evaluation Candidates of 2173. That's why she became Director — if only for one of the short one-year terms — to keep her only family safe.

Agony takes ahold of Kora, thrashing her around wildly to remind her of the date. She already knows. In fact, everyone in the Community knows.

Today is the day of Kora Damon's execution by guillotine.

The entire body of Citizens dressed themselves in the heaviest black they could find from their limited wardrobes, which had only been so because of Kora's laws she implemented as the Director — no more than seven pairs of clothing per Citizen, along with one set of formal attire.

A loud noise reverberates off the walls, causing Kora to slam her filthy hands against her ears, numb and black from untreated frostbite.

"Kora Damon?" a guard asks, unlatching the door with a rather large, silver key.

The lock pops open with a sharp click and the guard swings it open as it skids on the grey, stone floor of her cell, screeching like the howler monkeys seen on television — reruns of the old channels only accessible by the government and their family.

"Yes, that's me," she wheezes, looking up at the man standing in the doorframe, dressed in the most ridiculous suit she's ever seen.

Resting on his head is a black, fez-shaped hat, but with a white feather protruding from the center like a plant. The rest of the uniform is the same color as the hat, though accented with white trim.

"It's time for your execution out in the Gathering Square. I assume you know your charges, yes?"

Kora nods weakly, observing as the guard lifts her up — struggling to utilize his strength instead of hers — and leads her outside to meet her death.

"Personally, I think you still had a few years left on you. You're only, what, forty-two, maybe forty-three?" the man says, attempting to make small talk, though not at the most charming of times; he is, after all, bringing her to her doom.

"Sure," Kora spits, tensing her muscles to keep his fingers from sinking into her skin like they have been.

"You know, my daughter really looks up to Florence Mayfield. People say she shouldn't, that she's a criminal, but I think the circumstances you placed her in were unforgiving, causing her to accept that she has to do what she must."

Kora stares at the guard, hatred filling by the second. She glances down at his black, leather shoes, spitting on them defiantly.

He gasps at her sudden rebellion, opening his mouth to say something only to close it again when he finds nothing useful.

"And your own daughter?" he scoffs. "That's just cold."

"I did what I had to do to make sure she wouldn't have to live under the oppression the Community endows."

"Ah, so a case of motherly love? Never heard that one before."

_Well you wouldn't understand. You raised your daughter to believe that Florence Mayfield is a hero, that people like her should be idolized._

The man is one of the loyal Citizens, jumping around to fit the standards the Community puts up. Of course he doesn't believe Kora.

"I don't suppose they have existent mothers that live in the same cave you do," Kora remarks rather dully, not willing to devise an adequate comeback.

The Gathering Square, always so full of pomp, now gloomily rests in its location, the Citizens covered in black against the grey skies, heads bowed in a solemn manner.

They seem as though they care, and a select few actually do, but the others are just putting on an act — Kora is well deserving of their revulsion, notably after trying their patience an unreasonable amount of times.

Lace parasols, top hats, and ladies draped with heavy, austere garments are just a few of the sights Kora views as she makes her way to the guillotine standing proudly on the stage, waiting for her head to be placed inside and the blade to be dropped.

Her arm clutched tightly in the guards' grip, he pushes Kora up the stairs on opposite sides of the platform, trailing behind her closely.

"Kora Louise Damon," Director Abrafo starts, a frosty expression formed to her face, heavy with black eyeliner and mascara, "you are guilty of the charges as follows:

"Placing kin into the Evaluation Candidate pool without any of the committee's knowledge of her status.

"Removing a Candidate from the Evaluation's closed environment, the Dome, to perform further experiments in the lab.

"Do you accept your charges?"

Kora nods, tears streaming down her face before turning cold from the frigid air of the Incipiens Province.

"Secure her into the guillotine," Director Abrafo instructs the guard who had dragged Kora to the Gathering Square.

_This whole thing started with me, but now it's coming to an end with my beheading. All I wanted was for my daughter to be safe from the same force that's taking me down._

The guard takes Kora by the back, shoving her to her knees as her hands dig into the texture of the concrete of the stage. The man scoots her forward, reaching behind the machine to keep her head in place as he presses Kora's neck into the curved shape of the guillotine.

The Director turns to face the crowd, opening her arms to address them as their superior, or so it seems to most of the Citizens.

"Let this serve as a lesson to you all. Crime is not tolerated in the Community. Any rebellious behavior will be treated with severe repercussions."

Some of the Director's motives are original and well thought out, though the others are subconsciously following the ideas of Kora when in office.

Director Abrafo swivels to the guard, giving him a steady nod before he crosses behind her to join the other guard currently holding the rope.

She passes the string to the presumptuous man, who then hands it to Director Abrafo, clutching it tightly in her rough, calloused hands.

Kora's lips curl into a smile, for she acknowledges that she will see her daughter soon enough. It won't matter that she won't get a marked grave because of one of the laws she placed in order. She'll finally be safe with Snow, like she always wanted.

Stealing one last look at Kora, Director Abrafo averts her gaze to the waiting audience, pursing her lips as she lets the rope drop.

The blade cuts through the air, discombobulating Kora. Cries ring out in the air, some masculine, some feminine, most terrifying and earsplitting.

Kora's head rolls off the stage, Citizens backing up over each other's formal shoes, scuffing them up and screaming ever louder than before.

The Citizens in the front circle to the back of the crowd, attempting to be free of the undulating object approaching them rapidly.

"Citizens will act in an orderly fashion!" Director Abrafo declares at the top of her lungs, while maintaining a civil manner.

None of the Citizens seem to listen, and if they heard, they didn't care. They continue to shuffle around disorderly, tripping over those stuck on the ground.

Each time this happens, Director Abrafo's muscles seem to strain, causing her to look like a suffocating mess standing on two feet.

"Clear the square!" the Director shouts rather abruptly, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis and the peoples' attention.

Immediately, the Citizens start filing out swiftly like a mob of black smoke, practically tripping over one another in a rush to return to their homes to celebrate with a family feast, as is customary after an execution.

Director Abrafo sighs languidly, watching vehemently as the two guards slide the guillotine away from Kora Damon's severed body, picking up either side and transporting it elsewhere.

"Thank you," she praises. "I hate the sight of blood."

The Director draws the white gloves off of her hands carefully, finger by finger, staring down at the dismembered head resting in the audience space, a sight that caused her precious Citizens to flee.

Immediately, a cleaning crew made up of three Citizens enter the presence of the stage, equipped with mops, sponges, and various detergent products.

"We've come to take care of the blood, ma'am," the shortest one says, removing a brush from his pale filled to the brim with water and soap.

"The body baggers should arrive soon. For the time being, you should take care of the mess around Kora Damon."

Soon after the Director's words are uttered, four Citizens dressed in black from the earlier execution come scuttling in, carrying a long, white bag with a zipper running from the seam of the top section to the opposite seam of the bottom.

"You get the head," the one standing in the middle of the group instructs the one on the end closest to the audience.

"Why do I have to always get the head?" he complains.

"Because you have the biggest hands."

"Just get on with it already. We don't have all day," Director Abrafo snaps mirthlessly, drawing her lips into a fine line to suppress her annoyance.

"My apologies, ma'am."

The cleaning Citizens take their scrubs and suds and start right to work, getting down on their knees for a better approach.

The body baggers make their way directly to the headless body, three of them lifting it up and slipping it inside the pristine bag, while the fourth disdainfully takes the head with two fingers by a lock of curly, black hair.

The three baggers hold up the bag with the zipper open for the other drops Kora's head inside, shuddering after the process is finished.

Once the body baggers have exited, the cleaners shift to the spots under where the body would be were it not for the Citizens that removed it.

Dunking a sponge into his bucket, the shortest cleaner scrubs furiously at the splattered blood seeping into the grooves in the concrete.

Director Abrafo studies their actions intently, flinching with each pull of the cleaners' effervescent arms.

"That's enough. You are free to go," the Director instructs plainly.

"But we haven't finished yet," one complains, resting back on his haunches.

"I said you are free to go."

Director Abrafo's tone sharpens, shooting them a deadly glare to warn them about the consequences of disobedience as explained only an hour ago.

The cleaners exchange confused looks, but eventually collect their tools, shoving them into their buckets and clearing the area, bubbles still sprouting joyously from the ground as they mingle with the remainder of the dried blood.

The Director usually isn't susceptible to violence, mainly attributed to her sovereign blood phobia, though she must do what is best for the Community and its Citizens, and if that includes beheading a corrupt leader, so be it.

However, during these times, Director Abrafo can become rather brash, making poor judgements and snarling at those who oppose her.

These occurrences have turned some of the Citizens against her, protesting with signs that appear as though they were formulated in five minutes or less, but they're nevertheless harmful.

The clock loudly blares four times, signifying the twelfth hour of the day.

The Director turns, ambling off the stage from the side exit, the same way Kora had been brought.

Small, dirty footprints are clearly visible from the beheaded prisoner, some overlapping and smudged from haste, along with a matching set of boot-prints from the guard.

Director Abrafo smiles sweetly at the snow covering the green grass off to the side of the asphalt paths.

Something of a sweet disposition like snow is marked to bring jubilant connotations of holidays and playing outside with your family, building snowmen and creating snow angels with your back shoved into it, but it brings the Director something else entirely.

_That reminds me of that little girl who died in the Evaluation. It was quite hilarious watching Kora Damon struggle as I made the decision. She barely had any control over her own government._

Two years ago, Director Abrafo maintained the position of Evaluation Director, second in command to the Director figure, though the Director at that time would never wish to engage in those types of activities — they'd usually leave the responsibility to the Evaluation Director, as stated in their job contract.

By some mistake, Evaluation Director Abrafo held more power over Director Damon and the committee decided to make the cut — Snow was to be the Candidate to receive the final death portion of the Outbreak.

Only one Candidate, excluding Florence, was destined to die at the hands of the Community, and that was the Death Candidate, Snow. Because sickness and insanity are only parts of the entire disease, neither were presumed to be fatal, like the Candidates had so fearfully expected.

Reaching into her pocket for her crisp, white gloves, Director Abrafo slides them onto her hands, pulling them up to her elbows to be free of wrinkles.

She turns the handle to the door once she's made her way to the Community building located in the middle of the Incipiens Province — every Province has one of these, built for Community officials and the Director herself.

It is rarely put to use, only about three times per year for each Province, but the celebrations are grand when it finally is. Citizens decorate the street in the Community's official colors, blue and white, and stamp the impresa of a pelican on their clothes, windows, and other items to show their support and welcome of the Director.

Swinging open the clean glass door to the compound, Director Abrafo steps inside, removing her gloves to perform the handprint ID swipe required to enter.

"Hello, Director Abrafo," the secretary greets, a bun perched atop her head shifting ever so slightly as she smiles.

"Hello, Janice."

Janice beams, noticing that the Director has finally learned her name after two months of repeatedly questioning her.

"Did the execution go well?"

Janice has always been so invested in the Director's improvements to the Community, asking how things go after they transpire, trailing after the officials like a puppy.

She aspires for her pleonastic phrasing to match the laconic and peroration-formed speech of Director Abrafo, excluding the ribaldrous behavior, though she hasn't been proceeding very successfully.

"As well as an execution can go," Director Abrafo replies frankly, abruptly shoving her fingers back into the silk gloves clutched in her dark-complected hands. "I do believe everything has been taken care of, the punishment condign, if that's what you mean."

"Yes, ma'am," Janice amends, shambling over to catch the Director's falling fleece coat in mid-air.

"Oh, Janice," Director Abrafo begins, tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind Janice's ear, "you've always been so loyal, so perspicacious."

Janice's pink lips curve into a smile, revealing her polished teeth, suspecting her work has finally payed off.

"Shoot her," the Director instructs the guard standing at the back of the room.

Janice's face fills with worry as a bullet lodges itself into her chest, blood pouring out rapidly as the light leaves her eyes. With her dying breath, she glares at the guard, pleading for mercy, but he cannot deliver.

"Now that Kora Damon is out of the way, it's time to make new arrangements!" Director Abrafo exclaims, twirling in a circle with her arms extended.

Settling her gaze on the guard who had shot Janice only moments before, his eyes lit with fear from just killing a woman, her expression twists into a wicked sneer, tearing all of the optimism in the room to shreds.

"Let's start with PanKraven Endo, our young Evaluation assistant from two years ago. You know ofhim?"

 

**TEN YEARS LATER - 7 OCTOBER, 2185**

~~~~~

 

 _Though the Community is a safe environment,_  
we cannot assure you that there will not be  
abnormalities. However, if one of these aberrations  
is caught, a memory wipe will be conducted  
to protect the Citizens.

 _-_ Emergency Procedures in the Community Manual, _page 8_

_~~~~~_

Gentle wind weaves through the lobed, green leaves of the delicate white oak beside the rickety wooden porch on which a wicker chair rests, swaying with the slight pulls of my legs.

The leaves will soon turn orange from October's presence, then eventually fall to the ground like a vibrant blanket of the fallen.

The pages of my book flutter softly, as I gaze down at the blue cover, with the title written in beautiful, shimmery, golden type.

A knocking sound reverberates from the fence and I immediately look up to see a meek, black-haired boy appear behind the uneven fence that I've been wanting to change for a while now.

"Excuse me? What can I help you with?"

His eyes widen with surprise.

"Florence?"

"Yes, that's me," I reply, shifting in my seat.

"It sure has been a while. Desolate, dreary years burdened with — well, you don't want to hear about that, do you?"

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

Normally, I don't get visitors often. After Pan had a random outburst when the lawn mower wouldn't operate correctly, the neighbors and their friends were terrified to come over to even ask to borrow our table salt.

I stand, facing the man with a more equal approach, a tactic I learned from one of my teachers to be more assertive after she had noticed how submissive my demeanor was.

"Your memory faded quite completely. My name is Calum Zabel and, well, we used to be what you would call acquaintances."

_Like I go outside to meet people. This is a joke, isn't it? I bet it was Mrs. Flora from down the street who likes to squeeze my cheeks whenever I see her, but this time, she finally has a plan to draw me out._

"I'm twenty-nine, Mrs. Flora," I had told her as she grasped my cheeks tightly, as if she would never let go.

"Age is but a number," she replied. "You're still adorable."

"Memory loss?" I stammer.

"You're bursting with inquiries, aren't you? And you live with Pan?" He snorts. "You obviously forgot too much."

How he obtained this information is beyond me, for Pan has been dead for ten and a half years. The Community took him for crimes that they wouldn't explain to me — they said it was too dangerous, that it could cause my mental health to be reversed, whatever that means.

"Pan is a caring friend! I demand to know what you're talking about, showing up here and acting in such an offensive manner."

"Your 'caring friend' watched as Peter Sparrow died."

"Yeah, that's right he did. That evil man, Peter Sparrow, murdered my parents when I was a child! No one should have to endure that."

At the age of ten, that murderer burst through my house, rushing past my bedroom as he searched for my parents. He entered forcefully, knocking down the door in the process, gliding maliciously to the bed, where he soon stabbed them in the chest.

"Memory replacement," the boy notes. "Pretty devious story as well."

"This isn't a joke."

"You knew Peter. You were pretty close, from what I could tell. He said you might even be friends."

No, I'm friends with my co-workers, but we don't get all gushy with one another, or even invite each other over to our houses to exchange stories about our lives and eat crackers and cheese by the dozen.

Friend is a casual term, thrown around when someone's met another person they don't absolutely despise. Now this stranger comes to my house to say that I might even be classified as friends with Peter Sparrow, the person who rendered me an orphan at ten.

"I didn't know him. Not directly."

"Then where do you think you got the scar under your eye?"

Calum gestures to the area below my right eye and I reach upward to touch it, feeling the texture.

"I was gardening and a tool raked through my skin. It's simple."

Twelve years ago, I was planting new flowers in the bed of the front yard. They were roses, bright red, sticking up from the ground as their stems slithered through the air.

I had an itch on my forehead, so I approached it with my fingers, still clutching the small shovel. Suddenly, the dowel I was using slipped as I lowered my hand, creating a gash in my skin.

"No, he attacked you with a knife," Calum says matter-of-factly.

"And you said I was a good friend of his?"

Good friends don't attempt murder on their significant other. Good friends don't kill their acquaintances' parents. Calum's just a load of malarkey.

"Peter asked me to tell you something if you were ever split apart." Calum raises an eyebrow, waiting for approval — the only polite thing he's done since he arrived here. I nod. "Consider me a messenger of the dead." He laughs, amused with himself clearly. "He wished for me to tell you that he's sorry for all those things he did to you, to all of us. He said before he pulled the trigger, he wanted you to know that he doesn't hate you. He just doesn't want you to get hurt, that's all." Calum's eyes soften as he finishes the last sentence and he casts his gaze to the grass.

A black and rust-red bird circles above our heads, chirping softly as if to alert his buddies to his location. I had always aspired to have such a relationship with someone — to just say the word and have them respond immediately. It wouldn't be selfish, just a profound bond between two or more individuals.

"Eastern Towhee." Calum straightens his sky blue button down and runs his hand through his hair while observing the bird, keeping a steady gaze on its shifting form. "Always was his favorite. Peter's, I mean. Feathers black as night, their call sounding like 'drink your tea'. Those Brits and their tea."

He laughs nervously.

"You were friends with him then." The stranger nods slowly. "I don't like friends of killers on my property."

"But—"

"Get out."

He stares at me for a long time, then turns his back to leave.

"You cared for Peter. I know you did. You were like a mother to him, always helping him discover things, guiding him through the ups and downs. Maybe if you had your memories, you would know it, too."

A mother to Peter Sparrow? Because of him, I don't even have a mother anymore!

Trembling on the edge of my rocking chair, I look down at my lap, suppressing the anger.

"Maybe they spared you the pain."

~~~~~

Calum treads along the gravel path back to his own home, observing how the rabbits scoot furiously by, their small legs thrusting their bowl-sized bodies a couple inches closer to their desired destination.

He fiddles with the latch of the fence lining his particularly meager lawn, with patches of dirt sticking up amongst the dark green grass barely keeping itself upright.

Two wooden slabs stand upright in the yard, prominently marking something sentimental of Calum's. He steps closer to read the words engraved in the material once again, reminding himself every day why he should never forget.

_Peter Lyndon Sparrow_

_14 May, 2156 — 19 March, 2173_

The second one reads:

_Snow Abishag Leclerc_

_2 September, 2156 — 5 March, 2173_

"This was your life they took from you. Now how are you going to get it back?" Calum sighs, tracing the letters of Snow's grave.

Just by touching the object, memories flash back of him visiting Snow's house to have a chat with her mother, telling her that her precious daughter is gone forever.

"I'm terribly, sorry, Mrs. Leclerc," Calum had said.

"Oh, dear, it's not your fault," she replied between sobs, reaching up to wipe her nose. "I'm glad you came to tell me."

"Your daughter was truly amazing."

"Yes, she was," Mrs. Leclerc agreed, stuffing her hand in a nearby tissue box to find it empty. "What a great smile she had. And she was always so nice, volunteering at the animal shelter, though she couldn't stand guinea pigs. A phobia, she called it." She laughed half-heartedly. "I just can't believe she's gone."

"I know," Calum whispered, tears pulling at his eyes.

Stricken with grief, he tears his fingers away from Snow's grave, trudging inside to brew coffee, a substance that he only recently found enjoyable — in his opinion, it helps cure the tired feeling that insomnia brings.

"You're not healthy for my body," Calum mutters to the coffee machine, slipping an ingredient cup inside the compartment.

Recently, Calum hasn't had the energy to care about his health, though he realizes it's important to do so. Without his friends, life is dull. Even his one friend from school has left him in the dark.

The coffee maker sputters belligerently, signaling that the drink is ready for consumption. Calum turns, clutching the mug tightly in his hands so that he won't drop it.

Lately, his hands have been shaking, regardless if he's holding something or not. Calum assumes the cause is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the most logical conclusion, but currently his bipolar disorder symptoms are at their peak.

He can't think straight, he talks rapidly aloud to himself. Euphoria tricked him into believing that he was fine, but it's yet another astringent symptom.

Calum even had the fleeting delusion that he was a knight of the world, so he marched through the streets searching for dragons to slay. An old lady from the next neighborhood told him to go back inside, that he was disturbing her mirthless game of cards with her new boyfriend that she met in the park.

Calum pours the scalding coffee down his throat, not bothering to remember that it could hurt him. He drinks half of the cup before realizing that the heat had peeled some skin from the roof of his mouth.

_Why do I do this to myself?_

Finishing his beverage, Calum slams the mug down on the white, plastic surface of the sink. He turns the cold water knob, watching as the clear liquid pours inside his cup, swirling around to clean it.

He dumps out the excess water and coffee down the drain as it sloshes against the sides of the pipes, making its way to another destination far away from Calum's house.

 _It's Friday_ , he remembers, hope filling him up.

Opening the cabinets — parts falling off like tree branches — Calum selects the first box of many inside, containing macaroni and cheese, along with packets of the nostalgic, orange cheese powder to mix in after cooking.

He turns the cold water nozzle of the sink, filling the pot of pasta up half way to the brim with water, tainted by the macaroni. Calum twists the different colored buttons on the stove, creating a perfect scene to cook his dinner.

After a few minutes of absently staring at the wall and waiting for his meal to become soft and the water to diminish, Calum removes the pot from the blistering cooker, setting it on the counter nearby to allow it to cool down, the steam to disappear — he abhors hot food.

Replenishing the mug with plain tap water, Calum takes it and makes his way to the couch in the living room.

_It's okay. I'm okay._

The cup begins to rattle in his clammy hands, like the sound of rain pounding against his roof.

_But I already told you that._

Calum slowly descends to meet his sofa. Green, just like the one he had seen many times inside the building of the Dome.

_But I think I'm holding on too tightly._

He takes a prolonged swig of his water. It tastes distorted, like salt had been thrown carelessly inside.

_To those things I think about nightly._

Calum glances at the pictures of Peter, Snow, and Florence, framed inside a class casing, perched atop his mantle.

_But I already told you that._

Tears spring to his eyes and begin to search his skin for remnants of the past, weaving their way downward.

_I should've thought about that before I wasn't alive._

Calum takes a deep breath, allowing the familiar air of his home to fill his lungs that have breathed the oxygen of so many dark places.

_Before I close my eyes._

The cup continues to pound around in his clutch, his hands shaking vigorously, but he can't stop it.

_Before I say my final goodbyes._

Calum knows he can let go, that it seems so simple. He just wants to give up. It's easy to give up.

_Before the warmth in my heart shrivels up and dies._

The mug falls to the ground, shattering into a million scattered pieces upon the floor, spiraling into exquisite shapes that remind him of what he lost.

_But I already told you that._

Calum's words plunder all rationality inside my mind.

_You cared for Peter Sparrow._

But I didn't.

_Maybe if you had your memories, you would know it, too._

My memories are as clear as day.

I remember swinging on the tree branches before I could read, my small legs dangling above the brown dirt; my parents were too lazy to plant grass.

I remember punching Pan when he made fun of a boy wearing a skirt. Blood streamed down his lips as I sat in the principal's office smirking, because gender roles are overrated and useless to society — counterproductive, as I had told anyone who would listen.

I remember the hot summer days when I indulged in my favorite drink on the back porch, squeezing my mouth together when I swallowed the liquid form of sour lemons.

I remember standing outside in the rain, waiting on the lawn for my parents to come back from their seemingly endless journey, when I felt so much pain, so much loss when I heard the news.

I remember the times when I couldn't continue, when life was a dark cloud and I was struck by lightning.

I remember the pounding, the constant noises in my head, pulling me under, those voices telling me that I was an abnormality — an aberration.

I remember the good, the bad, and the ugly, no matter how hard I wish to forget.

I remember letting go, how I never found myself and how I know I never will, because I've always viewed myself as a concept, apart from others, untouchable, like I was different from everyone, and how I saw that as broken.

_Don't tell me I don't remember._

I jolt upright in bed, sweat gleaming on myforehead. I glance at the journal on my bed stand with a dubious curiosity.Gingerly placing it in my palm, I turn over the cover to the first torn page,sucking in all of the adventures that are to come.

~~~~~

**TWELVE YEARS LATER - 10 FEBRUARY, 2197**

~~~~~

 

 _The Directors each serve a term of one year,_  
but can be elected again. However, each time  
they run for office, the contestant pool will  
increase by five.

 _-_ Duty of the Directors _, page 3_

_~~~~~_

"Hey, I'll catch you later!" Raven waves to her departing friend, turning her back. Once she knows they're gone, she dashes up the lane and stops by a fairly small house, remote in relation to the space between other houses on the block.

_This one must be pretty old._

Indeed it is. Raven notices the chipping paint peeling off the sides of the building, curling in rolls at the bottom and lets out a deep sigh, as if to say, "This is going to need a lot of work."

She checks her wristwatch carefully, sighing at the display of numbers. Squinting, she finally uncovers the time. "I have thirty minutes."

_I should really stop talking aloud to myself. If I wanted to have a grand chinwag, I would've phoned Mum and told her about my day, remembering to leave out the part about the bullies._

Raven approaches the fence like the adventurers she reads about in her fiction books that her teachers discourage thoroughly ("Fiction is pointless for the mind. Try catching up on your history textbooks, dear.")

Truth is, Raven already learned everything there is to know about the Community's history, after poring over millions of famous manuscripts and lengthy pages when she consumed far too much coffee and was forced to live through the repercussions.

Jumping over the white pickets, the structure comes crashing down on her with a loud bang. Raven hops to her feet, dusting off her dark blue cardigan sweater.

"Well I guess that was coming down anyway."

She shrugs and continues on.

At the edge of the yard, Raven endeavors to find four wooden rectangles sticking up from the messy soil strewn around in bits across the lawn. She kicks the clumps elsewhere and smooths the object with her fingertips.

Three of the gravestones have beautifully written carvings on them, but the fourth appears as though it was done in a hurry, with only a knife and without stencils, perhaps scrawled in a drunken state, or one teeming with unmedicated hysteria. They read:

_Peter Lyndon Sparrow_

_14 May, 2155 — 19 March, 2173_

"I've heard of you!" Raven exclaims, squinting to get a better view. "My parents said you died a few years before that date though..." Her brow furrows in concentration, trying to recall how this observation could evolve to an entelechy.

"I'm hoping for a foison of theories," she says, placing a finger to her lips, eyes agleam with possibilities. "I'll think about it and it might turn to more."

_Snow Abishag Leclerc_

_2 September, 2155 — 5 March, 2173_

 

_Florence Victoria Mayfield_

_4 July, 2155 — 30 May, 2186_

 

_Calum Lucio Zabel_

_30 April, 2155 — 7 October, 2185_

They were all criminals! They were the Evaluation Candidates who escaped the Dome and attempted a malicious putsch, almost succeeding, as well. If it hadn't been for the bravery of Pan Kraven Endo (Raven took the liberty of learning his whole name), their plans would have been delivered.

 _The four Evaluation Candidates of 2173, Calum Lucio Zabel (KAL-uhm LOO-see-oh zah-BELL), Florence Victoria Mayfield, Peter Lyndon Sparrow, and Snow Abishag Leclerc (SNOE AB-ih-shag leh-CLARE) were notably the most famous criminals in the Community's history_ , Raven's history textbook had said.

Criminals don't get marked graves. Director Damon ensured the Citizens this formality as the first thing she implemented once elected into office.

Things are different now that Director Ulrich is running things. She came from an outlying country called Peru, through great struggle. She even hopes to rebuild the countries that have been destroyed.

Raven's watch beeps wildly, causing her to cringe from her sensitive ears. Slamming her hand down on the snooze button, she dashes out of the yard, flying over the rubble of the broken fence.

A silver school bus zooms by, wind weaving through Raven's hair like a basket-maker — an old process that she had become fascinated with in Chapter Twelve of her pre-Community textbook — as it passes. The kids wave and smile, elated to be free from the torturous confines of school and venture back home to bake cookies with their family — Raven, of course, has no idea what families do normally; hers is exceptionally strange, milling around everywhere, pondering the credibility of everything they pass.

~~~~~

When Raven returns to her house, she stops in front of the stoop, turning her head to the ground. Scuffing her shoe on the pavement, dread knots in her stomach.

_Should I really tell them?_

With a startling click, Raven's mother opens the door, a worried expression plastered to her face.

"Raven, honey, what seems to be the matter?"

"Nothing, Mum." She bites her lip, letting it go when she sees the prying stance of her mom. Smiling in reassurance, she adds, "Really, it's okay."

"Well you should get inside. Don't want you to catch hypothermia."

Her mother wraps her sweater tightly around her body, ushering Raven inside with a beckoning hand, waiting until she's through the door to place a guiding hand on her back.

"You finally remembered the difference between hypothermia and pneumonia."

"Hypothermia is cold, pneumonia is bacteria," her mom clarifies again to make sure Raven understands that she knows.

The sweet aroma of pumpkin spice fills Raven's nostrils. She breaths it in welcomingly, allowing it to wrap around her like a blanket and remind her of home, instead of the dingy facility that the teachers still have the audacity to call school.

"So, Mum," Raven starts carefully, walking her fingers up and down the kitchen table's length. "I was walking around one of the neighborhoods close to school."

Her mother slowly looks up from her activity of pouring milk into a tall glass. "Continue."

"And, well." Raven pauses for a moment. "I saw a grave that, I don't know, had a person's name on it — a person I believed to be dead a couple years before the date."

"Wren." Raven's father, Lark, scoots out of his study on his wheeled chair, pushing his glasses off of his worried face. "What's she talking about?"

"It was Peter Sparrow."

The cup of milk previously in Wren's hand comes crashing to the floor with a loud, shattering noise, making Raven cringe. The glass lies around in miniscule fragments, stricken with brief lamentation as they skid across the wood.

"No," Wren whispers, not even bothering to clean up the mess, or even glance down at it. "That's not possible." She narrows her eyes, approaching Raven slowly. Raven leans back away from her mother timidly.

"Could've been a mistake," she shrugs, attempting to be rid of the mad glare of Wren.

"He was always the deceitful type," Lark comments, jaw clenched, absently swinging his legs, while jerking the chair back and forth.

"But Finch said..." Wren trails off. "Finch Kerry Stillman!"

"I don't know much about Peter Sparrow. Were you mates?"

"He was the biggest jerk I've ever met," Wren blurts out, before slapping a hand to her mouth with wide eyes peering over the top of her fingers. "Language, sorry."

"Mum, I'm thirteen; it's okay."

"Peter screwed with our lives, ripped our relationships to shreds. Then, he just turns around, moves to the Community, and suddenly, Finch comes around saying he's dead." Wren's words reek with dysphoria.

"Wasn't that what we did? I liked our flat back in Cambridge."

Wren's eyes flash with apprehension, pinning Raven to a chair with only the look.

Three years ago, Lark burst through the door of their apartment, fear dancing across his face, running with water from the pouring rain. He closed his umbrella, darting up to his bedroom to collect his belongings, earning confused stares from the rest of the family.

Soon, he explained that it was imperative that Raven and Wren evacuate their cozy home in England and flee to the Community across the ocean. He remained vague, but was insistent enough to draw them outside and onto an airplane.

"We were nothing like him."

Silence fills the room, casting an eerie shadow over the whole house. Raven sits with her hands in front of her, concentrating with an atrabilious fixation on them to appear occupied while the cloud passes over.

"So volatile, that one," Lark pipes up, rubbing his eye with the flat of his hand, returning them to the conversation. "Never knew where he was going, where he was coming from."

"I was actually glad when he left." Wren sighs. "I know it sounds horrible, but his demeanor trumped my tolerance."

Wren's feet brush the fallen glass, snapping her back to reality.

"I need to sweep this up. Lark, where is the broom?"

Lark shrugs half-heartedly, eventually pointing to the dining room.

Raven pushes the chair out from behind her to fetch the broom, awarded by a winning smile from her mother. Returning with the object, Wren snatches it from her hand, quickly sweeping up the broken shards, carefully avoiding making contact with her toes.

"Sorry, Mum," Raven apologizes, smiling with one half of her mouth.

"It's okay, sweetie. Just...try not to go back there. It could be dangerous for you."

Wren cups Raven's chin in her hand, pulling her into a warm embrace.

However, Raven had no intentions of following instructions. After all, she only had a D put down on her report card for it.

~~~~~

The screen door closes with a bang, making Raven jump, as usual. Her black fleece jacket had gotten caught in the door, so she slowly pulls it out from under the wooden structure.

The wind greets her face with a cool blast, chilling her nose. Slipping on her mittens, she dashes up the driveway, recklessly jumping on her bike.

Raven begins to pump her legs, gradually gaining speed as she goes, the breeze turning to the wind speeds of a hurricane — though kids tend to exaggerate a bit.

On Saturdays, no one visits school, regardless. It looks like a scene from one of those zombie movies in the middle of nowhere, a small town located smack dab in the center.

Coasting and letting her muscles relax, Raven turns the corner into the neighborhood containing the four gravestones.

Kicking the stand forward, she leans the bike on its side to keep it upright against the thin piece of metal.

The fence remains torn down, the pieces of wood clashing with each other and sticking up in random formations. Raven giggles, recalling the event which had caused the destruction.

Proceeding with caution, she steps over the pile of debris to get to the tombstones. Raven lets out a slight gasp, expecting the graves to have changed, for whatever reason, but they only remain the same, monotonous figures.

"You're not even intimidating," she says, flinging the dirt around with her foot.

The crunching sound of leaves catches Raven's attention. Whirling her head around, she spots a dark figure standing in the corner of the yard, green eyes gleaming.

"Excuse me? Who are you?" Raven inquires nervously.

_Oh, this is it. She's going to kill me, isn't she?_

The girl only points to an object atop the roof, indicating the direction, as the sun pulls its way from behind it.

_North, West, East, South? What does she mean? Is she telling me I'm going to be burnt by the sun pretty soon?_

Possibilities fly through Raven's mind as she hurries back to her bike, pedaling furiously back to her house, soon realizing that she should've listened to Wren.

She peers upward to find a dove and a sparrow flying by, flapping their wings in unison as the sun chases them to the horizon.

~~~~~

Wren lies awake, blinking every thirty seconds, attempting to extend her record to a few minutes. However, her plans are foiled when an arm comes flying into her face, which she shoves back into Lark's half of the bed.

"Yes, hello, it is I," Lark exclaims, still groggy after being woken up a few seconds earlier.

"I can't stop thinking about what Raven said yesterday," Wren prompts, placing her hands by her sides and staring up at the ceiling ambivalently.

"It doesn't matter, honey. He's been dead for a long time."

"But still. What did he do during that time when we thought he was buried deep in the ground?"

Wren sits upright in her bed, throwing the covers off of her and pulling her legs from under them, stepping into her plush slippers and treading to her dresser.

"What are you doing?" Lark questions, propping himself up on his elbow, struggling to make out the image in front of him. He clicks on the white lamp beside him to get a better look at his determined wife.

"When Finch delivered the news, he also palmed me a letter, telling me not to read it until we found someone named Raven, which, as I'm sure you remember, was Peter's greatest goal in life. He was a freak about closure, desperately needing to complete the set of bird names."

"There are many more names than Raven. What about Kestrel or Gale?" Lark corrects her, rubbing the bits of crust out of his eyes.

"He just really wanted that one," Wren replies matter-of-factly, sifting through her shirts until she reaches the small, wooden box she keeps hidden under the mountain of fabric.

Running her palm across the bottom of the drawer, she finds the key, clutching it tightly. She enters it into the hole, awaiting the assuring click of the box springing open.

Placed in the middle, a pristine, white envelope rests, untouched and unworn over the years. Sliding the letter into her hands, Wren carefully tears it open, nostalgia threatening to throw her off her feet.

Lark waits anxiously, shifting with every second that anticipation damages his sleep state.

Wren pulls the paper out, unfolding it stagnantly. The familiar smell of her old Cambridge flat swirls all around her, tipping tears out of her eyes.

_Wren Carmen (though I suppose it's Wren Meremoth if you followed the directions the way I assumed),_

_By the time you read this, I will be dead. I know, I know, a stunning actuality, but nevertheless true. I hope you were successful in your endeavour to find Raven, though I suspect you named your daughter such a name — that, or you're incredibly impatient and opened it before the requested date._

_I hope you've forgiven me for those things I did. It can be extremely difficult to convey my actual feelings, considering the fact that I keep them locked up inside. Lark was pretty rattled, from what I could tell._

_But I don't pretend to know what you feel, because tears in the bathroom sink are too often confused with tap water. Personally, I tried to act like a strong person, but I realised no one ever asked me if I was okay, exclusively when I needed it. On the rare occasion that I injured myself playing croquet (I really like croquet, as you've seen), everyone rushed to my side. Somehow I feel, however, that the scars left in my mind are much deeper than the ones left on my knees._

_No one ever understood what I meant when I told them that, just brushed it off after a few worried stares. Scars to them are not scars to me. I won't get into too much detail about this, as I can guess that you just woke up, having an insightful epiphany after a tiresome existential crisis._

_I wanted to let you and Lark know that you were always terrific friends to me. You drew me from my asocial world of textbooks and daydreaming and brought me to a place where I could be myself — I know it sounds like a stereotypical speech written by a gushing teenage girl, but stereotypes are somewhat based on truth._

_If you get the chance, tell every one of our teachers in freshman year that I didn't go insane. At least not yet. I know they were betting money on that ("That Peter Sparrow lad — he's a bit of a tosser really. I'm putting down money that he'll go mad before he goes off to college.") Go and collect your winnings; buy a creepy doll to put in your daughter's room. I bet you guys were the ones who started the bet though, correct?_

_Interesting question: Have you ever noticed how children hold cups with both hands, pouring the liquid down their throat rapidly, but as they get older, they learn to hold it with only one hand, like they're more relaxed? I've always found that intriguing and I was hoping you'd think the same. Don't answer; you'd interrupt my magnificent soliloquy. I can't see how this relates, but I'm sure you can find some way to connect it — a tragic discovery by Peter Sparrow._

_On a more serious note, don't believe any of the things the government says about me. I am not a criminal. I know this is being written by my fifteen year old self and that it seems improbable that I would know anything about my future except the name of my next dog, but I can sense that I'll be doing some pretty bold things._

_The media is twisted. It won't get my story right. It'll tell the world that I died like a savage, deserving the fate I was so ruthlessly forced into. But don't let anyone else tell you I died like a hero. I did not. I died out of my own accord, because I've always been so terrified of commitment._

_Go back to your daughter. Tell her that there is someone looking after her and that she is loved. Tell her that she will never have to worry about being alone, because you will be here. That was an obligation that I was deserving of, but unendowed._

_Tell her that monsters aren't real. Tell her to step off the scale. Tell her that there are a million things to be done, but she doesn't have to worry about a single one of them. Tell her that she is under no pressure to do well in school. Tell her that she doesn't have to conform to society's standards of beauty. Tell her that she is a blessing to this world. Tell her that it's okay to let go, that she shouldn't be forced to stay in a place where she is unwelcome. Tell her that she can love whomever she pleases. Tell her that she is not a burden. Tell her that she is worth it._

_Because I was never told those things._ _And, well, you can see where that got me._

 


End file.
